


Young Blood

by arlathahn



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Bickering and bantering and banging oh my, Bisexual Richie Tozier, Childhood Trauma, Found Family, Friends to Lovers, Gay Eddie Kaspbrak, Getting Together, High School, M/M, Non-Explicit Sex, Post Pennywise (chapter one), Rated T for Trashmouth, Sonia Kaspbrak's A+ Parenting, that damn summer experience essay, watch me singlehandedly cherrypick canon source material and make up the rest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-27
Updated: 2019-12-27
Packaged: 2021-02-26 06:41:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 27,934
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21988978
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arlathahn/pseuds/arlathahn
Summary: Richie is always second-rate: from his Goodwill shoes to his sloppy hair to his shitty jokes. He may be the loudest person in the room, he may be the center of attention, but that doesn’t mean his so-called infamy actually counts for anything substantive. It doesn’t mean anyone wants him around past the last line of a funny joke, past the time it takes a party trick to shine: a brief eclipse of happiness before the darkness sets back in. Before the Losers, no one really looked twice, and after them, no one else really compared.Or: Eddie asks for Richie’s help filling out his Summer Experience essay. Richie agrees...and gets more than he signed up for.
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Comments: 44
Kudos: 120





	Young Blood

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to the 27k meta titled: Richie Tozer has depth, here’s the proof. An essay by yours truly.
> 
> In this fic, I seek to answer the burning question: what if they _didn’t_ use CGI on the kids in It: Chapter II, and instead let them act out later points in the Loser’s high school life. You know, _like actual teenagers?_
> 
> Some quick housekeeping: depending on where you live, there is reference and implication to teenagers having consensual sex in this fic. They are seventeen at the time of this encounter. Nothing is explicit, just inferred. I have this included because some teenagers around this age choose to have sex with each other in a safe and healthy manner. It is a thing. That is all.

> Love is awful. It’s awful. It’s painful. It’s frightening. It makes you doubt yourself, judge yourself, distance yourself from the other people in your life. It makes you selfish. It makes you creepy, makes you obsessed with your hair, makes you cruel, makes you say and do things you never thought you would do. It’s all any of us want, and it’s hell when we get there. So no wonder it’s something we don’t want to do on our own. I was taught if we’re born with love then life is about choosing the right place to put it. People talk about that a lot, feeling right, when it feels right it’s easy. But I’m not sure that’s true. It takes strength to know what’s right. And love isn’t something that weak people do.

-Fleabag (TV)

* * *

| FOURTEEN

They’re three weeks into the new school year when Eddie comes knocking on Richie’s door. “Hey dickwad, open up!” 

Well. Pounding, more like.

Eddie has always been a force of nature, but Eddie Kaspbrak post-Pennywise is a special kind of spitfire. He’s impulsive, he’s loud, he tells it like it is, and Richie fucking _loves_ it. Whichever part of Eddie’s anatomy was responsible for being so fucking _clenched_ all the time got drenched in greywater and promptly died in the sewers, and the leftovers are brimming with energy, chaotic and fucking _glorious._ He’s always been Richie’s opposite, but now they truly are equally matched, tit for fucking tat, and hell if Richie isn’t impressed with the results. It only took a demonic clown in the sewers to get Eddie’s hypochondriacal tendencies to snap in two, along with his arm. Tough break, that one. 

Pun fucking intended. 

So Eddie showing up at Richie’s house unannounced, leg bouncing with energy, petite hands wiggling with nerves is not exactly new. Richie has seen this exact image countless times, but it’s usually born of desperation. Eddie Kaspbrak does not visit the Tozier residence on accident, so much so he barely visits at all. He’s too busy worrying about Richie’s room, or his parents, or his germs. 

Plural, not singular. 

Richie is curious at Eddie’s arrival, sure, but his healthy, high dose of curiosity is not deterred, nor is his wide smile and spread hands. _Pleased talk show host_ voice, incoming. 

“Eddie, my main squeeze,” Richie greets, leaning precariously against his front door. It’s seen better days, everything in the Tozier household has, not like Bill and Stan with their pretty picket fences and their tables set for three. It doesn’t bother Richie most days, how can it? He barely spends time here himself. 

Eddie is looking especially bright today, donning a blue polo and his signature red shorts. Richie’s surprised they made it out of the sewers, honestly; Richie assumed everything Eddie wore that day would be lit on fire and ceremoniously burned. Not that Richie is complaining, mind. Which reminds him...

“Well,” Richie adds, sly grin sliding into place. “The side to my main squeeze. My _side_ squeeze, if you will.” 

Eddie rolls his eyes. “Beep, beep, Richie,” he says, but it sounds bored, a product of repetition and little else. 

Richie opens his mouth to retort, reflexive, but Eddie beats him to it and cuts the bullshit in one fell swoop. He’s always been sharp with his words, sharper with his temper, and he’s long since assumed the mantle of directing Richie’s attention exactly where he wants it, usually at himself. It’s not like Richie’s one to complain, not when the view is nice. “Rich,” Eddie says, without even fucking trying to get a literal foot in the door, “you know things.”

Richie laughs. He can feel his smile spreading, wide and genuine. He couldn’t have asked for a better opening line. “Hell yeah, baby. What do you wanna know?”

Eddie crosses his arms. Looks Richie up and down, thorough. He doesn’t look overwhelmed, wooed, or otherwise ready to devour, but he doesn’t grimace, either. And he definitely doesn’t look away. 

Richie’s eyebrows rise. “Like what you see, sweetheart?” 

Eddie scoffs. “Not a chance, dipshit.” 

“That’s not what your mom said—”

“—last night, I _know,_ get some original material already.”

Richie shrugs one Hawaiian-clad shoulder. “If it ain’t broke…”

Eddie very patiently does not roll his eyes again. “Remember that summer experience essay?”

Richie blinks, not expecting the change in topic. “As if I could fucking forget.”

Eddie nods, looking down at the ground. “I just...I was thinking. We still have a couple weeks left. We should...make the most of it, you know?” Richie doesn’t answer right away, so Eddie adds a bleak: “I’ve wasted enough time already.”

Richie is not accustomed to silence. He’s allergic to awkward, so he breezes through the barrier whenever it presents itself easy as breathing. To allow that kind of pause, that kind of _hold_ means weirdness, means a thought-provoking level of introspection, and Richie can’t allow that kind of bullshit in his life. Not when everything in it doesn’t hold up to scrutiny: from Richie’s parents, to Richie’s home, to possibly even Richie himself. 

It’s not like anyone sticks around long enough to look, anyway. 

Point being, it’s rare for Richie to be caught off guard. It’s rare for him to be unable to look away. But Eddie Kaspbrak is standing on his doorstep, _his,_ when he could have picked anyone else. Bill, Stan, Mike, Beverly, Ben. Any of them would be better prepared for this once-in-a-lifetime offer, and better equipped to respond with something resembling sincerity, with a gentle spirit tailor-made to soothe Eddie’s more obscure vulnerabilities. 

Eddie looks uncertain, sure. He looks damn near terrified of Richie’s rejection, but he showed up anyway. He took the first step, knowing full well Richie might laugh in his face, or wisecrack some ridiculous something, or simply walk away. 

He showed up. And hell if Richie knows what to do with that. 

But he tries. Tries to meet Eddie halfway, tries to be a decent fucking human being. He doesn’t laugh. He doesn’t joke. The front door creaks a little from Richie’s precarious leaning, but that’s it. There’s kids down the street riding by on their bikes, a horn far away, birds chirping nearby. All normal. Everything is as it should be, except the silence between best friends who have never been quiet a moment in their lives, let alone together. 

Eddie looks up. 

Richie physically jolts back into reality. “What uh, what do you have in mind?”

Eddie flushes, precious and sweet. _Cute,_ Richie wants to say, and he would, too, if Eddie wouldn’t slap his hand away and rescind the offer altogether. “I was sort of hoping you might have a few ideas.”

A slow smile spreads over Richie’s wide mouth, Cheshire-cat style. “ _Eddie bear,_ are you saying what I think you’re saying?”

Eddie’s brain visibly backs up twelve steps. “Uh, maybe?”

Richie’s shit-eating grin isn’t deterred. Forget cats, he’s positively wolfish. “Are you asking me to be your summer experience guru?”

Eddie sighs. Loudly. He closes his eyes, takes a deep breath. At least he knows the inhaler isn’t required. 

He knows the inhaler isn’t required, right? Richie watched him throw that shit away two weeks ago. 

Eddie’s eyes are still snapped shut, his entire body tensed for combat. He looks regretful already. “Yes?”

Richie springs from his perch at the door, Eddie’s permission being the one word holding him back. He smothers Eddie in the Richie Tozier equivalent of a hug: it’s a full-body affair, with plastered chests and big palms over backs and dark hair tickling ears. It’s ridiculous, Richie knows, a perfect parody of the instigator himself. 

“Oh Eddie-bear,” Richie says, and this time he does pinch Eddie’s cheeks, “you are going to have the time of your _life._ ”

Eddie’s smile is only a little bit strained. “Great,” he squeaks, still fearful. 

It’s okay, Richie thinks. They’ve got time. 

* * *

They start small. 

Eddie meets Richie after school the following day, where they take the long way home under the guise of finding the perfect spot for Eddie’s first public act of rebellion. Richie has been coming here for years, and it tends to be his special home away from home. He’ll pick Eddie’s place first, Sonia or no Sonia, it’s still better than the bitter silence that is loneliness, but on the days when Eddie is too tightly wound, which is often, Richie will visit the scrapyard, wonder about the meaning of shit no one else wants anymore, and chainsmoke his lungs into nonexistence. 

He’s never brought someone else here. Not that he’ll tell Eddie that. 

Eddie looks more like the nervous little spitfire Richie grew up with than the brand new Eddie post-Neibolt, but Richie doesn’t judge; he gets it. New territory, new nerves. Eddie, meanwhile, is performing an interesting song and dance at Richie’s elbow, twisting and untwisting his fingers in knots, seeming to catch himself before the motion gives away the act. It’s a new habit, Richie’s noticed. In lieu of his inhaler, Eddie just doesn’t know what to do with his hands. 

“Do you come here often?” Eddie asks on the third un-twist.

Richie must really be off his game, if Eddie is allowing two beautiful openers in the span of two days. “Aw sweetheart, you know I’m new in town,” he says, donning a southern belle accent. 

Eddie grimaces. “That was stupid,” he mumbles under his breath. Richie doesn’t ask if he’s referring to Richie or himself. 

“Now, Eddie-bear, no need to be so distressed.” In a more serious tone, he adds, “You’re doing a good thing, you know.”

Eddie doesn’t look up. The respective crunch of their shoes against the gravel road is loud. Too loud. 

“You think?” Eddie’s voice is small. Richie doesn’t have to look to know Eddie is fidgeting with his hands again. 

“I _know,”_ Richie says, and means it. 

Silence falls, and with it the oppressive void Richie inherently despises. It’s the exact sort of space-eating black hole Richie always seeks to fill, in whatever way he can. His voice, usually, or his hands. His rambunctious nature, the sheer ferocity of his will. Anything is better than nothing. Even if what Richie has to offer is _next_ to nothing, it’s still better than that empty hole. 

Then again, and it’s a stupid fucking impulse, Richie should know fucking better, there are times even the Trashmouth is serious. Times he wants others to take him seriously, too. It doesn’t even have to do with silence so much as it does sincerity. Richie doesn’t want to ruin good moments; he isn’t even trying to steal the limelight. Richie tends to tell the truth, yes, but it tends to be behind the veil of a joke. Always with a laugh tucked at the end. Take that away and the facade cracks and crumbles, the hand revealed as a cheap party trick and little more. No depth. No value. Useless scrap, tossed and left behind. 

Sometimes, rare times, Richie wishes he could be different. Brave, like Bill. Smart, like Stan. Steadfast, like Mike. Sweet, like Ben. 

Maybe that’s why Richie likes Eddie so much. Maybe that’s why he’s proud. Richie wishes he could be rebellious like Eddie. Not in the way Richie is rebellious; not loud for the sake of being loud. Not looking for attention, but rebellious against the culture, against the norm. Loud against the principle of the matter, the _heart,_ when no one else would notice, let alone bother questioning the status quo.

It may have taken a demonic clown to bring Eddie’s bravery to light, but the potential’s always been there. It’s why they’re here, isn’t it? Because Eddie took the first step, breaking through the unknown. And when he falters, when he questions himself, that’s when Richie picks him back up. 

_Jesus._ Maybe the scrapyard wasn’t the right place for Eddie’s first public act of rebellion. Not if it makes Richie this self-reflective. There’s a reason he visits this trash heap by himself. It’s the only place Richie and his more morbid thoughts belong. Trashmouth at the trash heap. A match made in heaven. 

Or is that hell? Who can say. 

“Thanks.” Eddie’s voice is quiet, but there’s a sincerity to his voice that Richie can’t quite match, can’t quite manage. 

Richie slings an arm around Eddie’s shoulder, roughs his hair with the opposing hand. “Anything for my Eddie Spaghetti.”

“Oh my god, get _off me,”_ Eddie shrieks and shirks away, and yes, that it’s it. _Back to our regularly scheduled programming, folks!_

“So!” Richie claps his hands together, swaying closer to Eddie’s side. Careful not to touch, lest Eddie impale him with one of his dangerous elbows. Sharp as daggers, those Kaspbrak joints. It must be a trademark of Eddie’s father, because there’s no way Eddie inherited anything sharp from Sonia; she’s soft all over. “What’s first?”

Eddie unclips a fanny pack from his waist, touches the zipper with a silent sort of reverence. Maybe Richie isn’t the only one with morbid thoughts. Maybe this is a bigger deal than Richie accounted for, in more ways than one. 

With remarkable tact, Richie resists from making a joke. “Thought you got rid of it?” he asks with the air of disillusioned disinterest. His acting chops have really come a long way; Eddie should be proud. 

Eddie doesn’t look up. “I did. This is the second one. You know, the one I asked you to get when we first found Ben at the pharmacy?”

And boy, if _that_ isn’t a trip down memory lane. “Shit, yeah.” Richie chuckles. “Don’t think I’ve seen it before.”

“It’s for emergencies mainly.” Eddie shrugs. “I only ever needed the one outside the house.”

Richie coughs. “Um, aren’t they all? Like, for emergencies?”

Eddie’s eyes snap up, brown eyes blazing. _Mission accomplished._ “A _backup,_ then. Jesus.”

“Hmm.” They reach their destination; Richie slows to a halt. He brings a cigarette to his mouth, lights it. “Your mom keep any condoms in there?”

“That’s it.” Eddie stomps forward. “I’m officially burning this entire fucking fanny pack.”

“That’s my boy!” Richie huffs a laugh, nearly choking on his own nicotine. 

Eddie glares back at him, pointing. “You’re next.”

Richie doesn’t even blink. His smile is slow and steady as the sunset, hands outstretched in invitation. “I’m always on fire for you, baby.”

Eddie flips the bird, not bothering to turn back around a second time. 

Richie laughs so hard his insides hurt. 

* * *

“What’s this one for?” Richie squints at the label, curious. He’d taken his glasses off for the sheer trip that was watching the sunset streak across the sky in a blurry haze, imagining the image to be akin to a free hallucinogenic experience. Or well, almost free, if you counted the prescription glasses. 

“Albuterol.” Eddie steals the container out of Richie’s hands, tosses it over the fence to Derry’s scrap yard. “For asthma.”

Richie nods, leaning back on his hands. He’s propped himself on the edge of a concrete overlook that was probably home to something vaguely important, before the scrap yard took over and dominated the landscape with its crushed metal walls. Everything in Derry is that way: either built on scraps or over the top of something else. There’s always something to hide, something secret, and the Loser’s know this better than most. Maybe they’re the only ones. 

Richie’s legs dangle over the side, kicking away at the faded white paint. “This is super illegal, you know,” he comments idly, just to get a reaction. 

But Eddie shrugs simply. “It’s this or tossing them down the drain, but my mom would totally notice. She has a _sense_ about these things.”

Richie passes another prescription bottle to Eddie, contemplative. “Won’t she just make you get new ones?”

“Probably.” Eddie nearly throws his arm out of its socket with the force of the throw. _So adorable,_ Richie thinks, watching the bottle barely clear the fence. “I’m not filling the prescription.”

“She’ll probably fill it herself.” Richie squints at the sunset. The blurred view is fucking incredible, just like he thought. 

“Yeah.” Eddie heaves another throw. Richie hears the bottle land, a distinct _tink_ as it nails the hood of a scrapped car. “But that’s her problem. She knows I’m done with the bullshit.”

Richie adjusts his squint from the sky to Eddie’s half-blurred face of scrunched, adorable teenaged rebellion. “Who _are_ you and what have you done with Eddie Kaspbrak?”

Eddie laughs, but quiet, like he’s trying not to let Richie know. It’s not a bad bet, actually; without his glasses, Richie is practically blind. 

“I told you,” Eddie says eventually, hopping a little to join Richie on his perch of crumbled concrete. “I’m a new man.”

“I’ll say,” Richie replies, and doesn’t bother hiding the pride coloring his tone. 

It’s quiet for a while, sitting side by side watching the sunset. Eventually Eddie reaches for Richie’s glasses, cleaning them with the edge of his yellow t-shirt. 

“You’re so disgusting,” Eddie comments. “How can you even see out of these things? Do you ever clean them?”

Richie kicks against the wall again, tapping a vague impression of a Buddy Holly song he heard on the radio. “Why bother, when I have you?” He elbows Eddie for good measure.

Eddie just rolls his eyes. “Yeah, yeah,” he says, but it’s borderline fond. 

He’s still smiling down at his hands when he finishes inspecting Richie’s eyeglasses, completing one last wipe with a low grumble. “It’s the best I can do for now. Here, turn your face, dickhead.”

Richie following Eddie’s orders feels like basic instinct at this point. Richie will argue for the sake of arguing until Eddie is red in the face, but sometimes the effect works in reverse, too: sometimes following Eddie’s instructions is just as sweet as protesting them, and sometimes Eddie turns red regardless of whether he’s boiling over or simmering down. Sometimes Richie just wants to know what will elicit a reaction, _when,_ and how he can get it to happen again, as soon as fucking possible, all the fucking time. 

Richie shudders. It’s gotten fucking cool out. 

He turns, and watches in slow motion as Eddie’s face transforms from a blurred outline of dark hair and darker eyes to a crystal clear image of that same boy, but with light freckles and red cheeks and a curious expression to join it. Eddie’s fingers are gentle around his ears, slotting his frames into place and it strikes Richie how goddamn _small_ Eddie is, how little compared to Richie, who has giraffe legs and bug eyes and wiry glasses with big frames. 

They’re like mismatched puzzle pieces, drawn from either side of the picture. But that doesn’t mean they can’t fit together, too. Two pieces of a larger whole. 

“There.” Eddie’s voice is quiet, and for some inexplicable reason, it makes Richie quieter, too. “That better?”

Richie smiles, and for once it’s not a joke. “Picture fucking perfect, Eds.” 

Eddie smiles back, and for once doesn’t bother correcting the nickname.

* * *

It goes in a routine like that for awhile: Eddie gets new meds, Richie and Eddie meet up to get rid of them in new and creative ways until the prescription runs out, then the cycle turns over again. It goes on long enough Richie doesn’t feel anxiety showing Eddie every secret hideaway he knows, long enough Eddie doesn’t need words when he nudges Richie’s elbow, asking with his eyes and a shake of his head if they can meet after school. Long enough Richie doesn’t question it when the other Loser’s ask where they’ve been, what they’re up to, and both Richie and Eddie answer a unified “nothing!” that does exactly more harm than good. 

Long enough Richie starts memorizing the detail of Eddie’s face, with or without the glasses. 

* * *

| FIFTEEN

Call him stupid, but Richie isn’t really expecting much after that, in terms of escalation. 

He knows Eddie is on this whole _new experience_ kick, sure. He knows Eddie is tentatively reaching out, fingers grasping at straws Sonia has been oh-so-shittily keeping from him all these years. He knows Eddie went to the one person who is the epitome of teenaged rebellion, the embodiment Sonia would fucking _despise_ for tainting her precious Eddie, her baby boy. He knows it’s Eddie’s version of a rebuttal: an oh-so-pronounced, oh-so-succinct _fuck you._

Richie knows. But he doesn’t press. 

For one, because pushing Eddie’s buttons is different than pushing Eddie’s _boundaries,_ and Richie isn’t interested in pushing Eddie past the brink. It’s far more intriguing to watch Eddie make that decision for himself, then visit Richie in the aftermath. Or during. Or whenever, really. It’s better than live television, better than comics; hell, it’s better than the fucking _arcade,_ the point is, Richie’s always up for Eddie moonlighting as an after-hours vigilante, with siginficant amounts of cursing, coping, and general mayhem. Richie may not be subtle, but damn if Eddie doesn’t match him pitch for pitch when he’s wound up just right. 

For two, kicking your prescription meds to the curb seems like a pretty huge first step in the general _teenaged rebellion_ arena, let alone the _living life to the fullest_ arena, so forgive Richie for assuming it might be the only one. It doesn’t diminish the time they shared, not by a long shot, it’s just that Richie...isn’t expecting much, in the aftermath. A breakdown, maybe. A long-term bout of serious self-doubt. A relapse, perhaps, at least in the temporary. 

He should have known, though. Eddie is always full of fucking surprises.

Richie’s in-between first and second period, nursing a cigarette on a day that feels more like fall than summer, which, while apt, feels fucking depressing, relishing the warmth of each inhale, the sting of nicotine deep in his lungs. It may be bad in the long term, but _damn_ if it isn’t sweet in the short. It started out for show, just another joke, but Richie enjoys the time spent alone, enjoys the burn on the way down. Enjoys the feel of the filter between his fingertips, enjoys watching the leaves fall down, one, maybe two pentagons of orange at a time, enjoys keeping himself occupied doing more than just one thing. 

_Part time multi-tasker, full-time bullshitter,_ as Richie tells the Losers. They uniformly agree. 

Beverly is usually the one to join Richie on such wonderful outdoor activities as these, but this year her schedule is sadly fucked from Richie’s and the timing never works out right. Not until the last period of the day, which gives Richie something to look forward to, sure, but also leaves a red-headed, spitfire hole in his life. Richie is allergic to silence, but silence, sadly, is not allergic to him. 

Still, it’s not all bad. Especially not when Eddie comes blasting out the school doors, little arms shaking. 

He stomps up to Richie like his mind’s made up—it probably is—then stops a foot away, stock still. He looks a little wild, a little brazen, a little like he might fucking explode in the next ten fucking seconds, and Richie can’t help but smile, nice and easy and slow, appreciating the view. 

“Mornin’, Eds.” _A puff of smoke here, a sauve entrance there…_ Richie is just where he wants to be. It’s 10:00am, and his future is looking bright. 

Brighter by the second, in fact, if Eddie’s stormy eyes are anything to go by. “I’ve been looking for you everywhere, dipshit.” Eddie crosses his arms, looking a touch unnerved by his own bravado. Like walking straight up to Richie and calling him dipshit isn’t a regular, run-of-the-mill occurrence. Richie doesn’t quite get it, but there’s a couple odd complexities about Eddie Kaspbrak that Richie doesn’t quite get. It’s no bother, though. Having a few mysteries is what makes life fun, and Eddie is chalk full of riddles Richie cannot _wait_ to uncover. 

It’s kind of how their entire friendship works. 

“I’ve been right here, sweetheart,” Richie retorts with the hint of an accent, a slight fluctuation of vowels. 

“Yeah, smoking your lungs into oblivion, like always.” Eddie rolls his eyes, crosses his arms. 

“You worried about my life-span, Eds?” Richie inhales again, exaggerating the breath just to watch steam pour out of Eddie’s red-tipped ears. “Didn’t know you cared.”

“God forbid you live to see eighty,” Eddie says in a voice that sounds more grumble than full volume. “And don’t call me Eds!”

“And what, give you a reason to stop chastising me?” Richie balances the cigarette on thumb and forefinger, arm outstretched like he’s an old woman spread out lazing in an ugly armchair instead of a teenager leaning against the ugly tan concrete of Derry high school. “Not a chance.”

“Have it your way, loser.” Eddie _does_ grumble then, having peaked at the upper levels of frustration. Though Richie has said less than five sentences, and Eddie hasn’t attempted to outright stop Richie from doing much of anything, which means this has less to do with Richie and more to do with whatever brought Eddie out here in the first place. 

“So, what brings you?” Richie heaves himself upright, or _more_ upright anyhow, which conveniently places him taller than Eddie, which is normal, mind, but feels like an added side effect. It grates on Eddie’s nerves, how short he is, how _delicate,_ but Richie kind of likes it. Eddie Kaspbrak is the perfect height for one of Richie’s arms slung around his shoulders, perfect for showing him the way of the world, perfect for whispering in his ear. “Did you come to admire my chain smoking abilities? They’re subpar on school grounds, I’m afraid, but see me after class for some extra credit.”

Richie goes to wink, but Eddie beats him to the punch. “Fucking no, Jesus. Can’t a guy just…” Eddie scrambles a little, which—fucking _what,_ this day is fucking incredible, Richie isn’t even trying that hard—pun fucking intended, “want to keep an eye on you? I know Bev is busy this year, and if you’re left _totally_ alone lord knows what you’ll up to; the school might catch on fire. You know they estimate ninety-two percent of forest fires in Maine are man made? It might be closer to ninety- _five_ percent if I didn’t do my due diligence, checking on you.”

Eddie says all this like it’s a perfectly good explanation. Like he’s practiced and rehearsed this same speech in front of a mirror. It’s not a bad smoke screen, necessarily, so much as it piques Richie’s interest that it appears there at all: that Eddie should need a fucking reason. 

_Interesting,_ Richie thinks, eyeing Eddie’s appearance in a new light. _Very interesting._

“Ha fucking ha,” Richie says, belieing his very real, very justified sarcasm. “That’s cute, Eds, except how you go out of your way to avoid smoking, or the great outdoors, or anything resembling fun.”

He means it as a joke. Poke the fire and you get burned, but it’s also not anything untrue, in the strictest sense of the word. Still, the truth stretches a smidge too far, and the effect is immediate: Eddie’s face falls, and Richie regrets ever opening his mouth. The worst part though, worse than the initial punch to the gut that is regret, is watching Eddie try and fail to keep it close to the chest. His eyes are cast downward, but bravely, like he’s trying his damnedest to save face. 

Fucking _shit._

“I can be fun,” Eddie says to his shoes. He kicks at the concrete, and a pebble goes flying off into the grass. 

“‘Course you can, Eds,” Richie says, which is also true. He leaves the relative safety of the wall to stand in front of Eddie, who is still inspecting the pristine white of the Adidas sneakers he was so proud to own at the start of the school year. Richie had mocked him for it the entire first day, until school let out and he admitted—in private—he thought they were cool. 

Eddie’s face now has a similar effect, in that Richie has the ludicrous fucking thought of wanting to offer a form of comfort: an arm around the shoulder, a nudge in the side, a tickle under the arm. But Eddie might not want Richie’s attention, at least in the physical, and those porcupine quills are just sharp enough to give Richie pause. 

So he goes for a different tactic instead. “Tell ya what, Eds: prove it to me.”

It works in that it distracts Eddie’s attention back onto Richie’s face. His head snaps up, eyes locked. _Target acquired,_ Richie thinks. _Fire away._

“Prove it,” Richie says again. He leans back against the wall, smug satisfied. 

There’s a moment where they’re just staring at each other. Not awkward, but charged. A moment where Richie thinks—however momentarily—he really did short-circuit Eddie’s brain, and Eddie’s going to up and leave Richie entirely, which is almost always reserved for moments Richie has definitely, absolutely crossed a line. 

Thank god almighty he doesn’t. 

Instead Eddie charges forward—which is Richie’s favorite version of Eddie: fired up and chock full of vigor, incorrectly labeled as rage more than half the time—right into Richie’s space, snatches the cigarette from Richie’s lips, and shoves it directly in his mouth. 

Richie’s not sure Eddie even inhales. Richie is similarly not sure he’s breathing. 

But Eddie does inhale. He does breathe. It takes him a good three seconds, but Richie watches in rapt fascination as the orange ember glows, bright and fucking twinkling, before simmering back down again. Watches as Eddie breathes, throat working, smoke billowing. 

_Jesus_ fucking _Christ,_ this isn’t erotic. 

Is this fucking _erotic?_

“Did you just—” Richie is broken. Eddie broke him. This is where Richie’s ashes lay: Derry, Maine, on school grounds. Not his preferred way to go, but hell, he’s not even complaining. He’s not even speaking, because what are words? How is Eddie this amazing? What the hell just happened? 

_Oh,_ boy. If Richie ever retrieves higher brain function, Eddie is never— _never—_ going to live this down. 

But dreams never last, and this one doesn’t either. Eddie coughs somewhere deep in his throat, then promptly keeps coughing, long enough and hard enough Richie’s entire body is moving forward on instinct, fingers reaching for Eddie’s fanny pack that’s no longer there. 

Then, finally, a breath. Deep and robust and filled with smoke. Richie claps Eddie’s back for lack of anything better to do, listens carefully to Eddie’s lungs inhaling and exhaling deep pumps of air. On the third breath, Eddie is sounding better, more normal. 

“Oh my god,” Eddie sputters. His entire face contorts: eyes squinting, nose curling, mouth spitting. “That is fucking _disgusting._ I cannot believe you do this for fun.”

Richie laughs. He can’t help it; Eddie will never fail to make the gross look fucking cute. It’s just who he is, coded into his DNA despite Sonia’s attempts to squash it out elsewise. “You gotta, you know, _ease_ into it.” Richie performs a weak rendition of the wave: knees bending, torso leaning, hands gesturing. “You can’t just inhale the whole thing in one go.”

Richie pauses. “Like your mom.”

Eddie’s sputters become even _more_ oppressive at that, which Richie didn’t know was possible. He’s vaguely impressed, on a subliminal level. “Oh my _god,_ why do I hang out with you. I hate you so fucking much.”

Richie shrugs, salty sweet. “You know you love me, baby.”

Eddie doesn’t react the way Richie expects him to. He doesn’t go on a ten-minute dissertation about how nasty Richie is, about how his clothes are rumpled and his skin is covered in germs and his hair is wild and untamed. He doesn’t utter a single goddamn word. Not verbally, anyway. Richie watches, in fucking slow motion realization, as Eddie’s cheeks turn scarlet—fucking _scarlet,_ how fucking wonderful—his gaze caught somewhere on Richie’s midsection, stuck there like he’s half ashamed and half enthralled, almost like he…

Holy fucking shit. 

Richie is not equipped to handle this much cuteness all at once. He isn’t equipped to handle this much cuteness, _period._ How does one maintain the status quo while also edging just a tiny step closer? How does one crack the facade that is Eddie Kaspbrak, professional germophobe, with enough OCD tendencies to publish several books, in alphabetical order, pronouncing Richie Tozier as his worst and most revered enemy? How does one, say, bridge the gap between best friends/rivals and best friends/rivals-who-occasionally-find-each-other-incredibly-hot-and-tempting? 

Who the fuck knows, honestly. 

“Well,” Richie manages after ten seconds of semi-awkward silence. He maintains the lean, mostly because it’s the only thing keeping him upright. “You have good taste, cutie.”

And winks. 

_There,_ Richie thinks. _Mission accomplished._ And he didn’t even use one of his voices to do it. 

It works well enough in that Eddie rolls his eyes, which is normal, but also doesn’t flurry away in embarrassment, which is new. Goddamn, is it even possible that Richie’s blatant flirting has made a dent in his thick forehead? Is this all just a dream?

“Anyone remotely interested in you probably has brain damage,” Eddie retorts, but it sounds half-tier at best. Oh, this is just fucking _delightful._

Richie shrugs again, nonplussed. No way some arbitrary banter is going to rain on this fucking parade. “Takes one to know one, so they say.”

Eddie doesn’t say anything to that, which is fine. Richie doesn’t always need to bicker until the cows come home. Besides, it’s far more interesting to catalogue Eddie’s expressive eyes roaming over Richie’s tall, lanky form, poorly disguised as disinterest. 

Maybe Richie will write a few books of his own. He’ll even put them in alphabetical order, just to watch the surprised elation on Eddie’s face when he discovers what’s been true all along: that is was all for him from the get-go, from A to fucking Z. 

* * *

“I can’t believe you fucking did that!” Eddie hiss-whispers at Richie’s back, head tucked near Richie’s shoulder. 

Richie laughs, feeling fiendish with delight. “Aw, come on, it’ll dry in a couple of minutes. Live a little, Eds.”

“ _Live a little?”_ Eddie shrieks. Richie doesn’t have to see it to hear Eddie’s incredulity, joined by wild hand gestures. He’s more like a judge with a gavel than collateral in the crime, but Richie can’t complain. Short, fired up, and desperate is the way Richie likes his Eddie Kaspbrak best. 

“Yeah, you heard me.” Richie grabs Eddie’s elbow, leading them blindly through the halls before Mr. Robinson walks out of the classroom. If Richie is caught out of class he’s dead, no questions asked. Eddie would be fine, he’s on a free period anyway, but Richie? The second his mouth opens on a retort he’s toast. Which is a damn shame, really, because his best work doesn’t require words at all. 

Double euphemism? Hell yes. 

Eddie, meanwhile, is back to his usual _we’re about to spontaneously combust_ schtick, which comes out in the form of a hushed whine and a tug on Richie’s hand. “More like _die a little,_ Richie. If someone sees…”

Richie glances over his shoulder. He can barely see Eddie over the thick line of his frames, but he would bet his bottom dollar his cheekbones look _amazing_ from Eddie’s perspective. He adds an eyebrow wiggle for dramatic effect. “That’s why we’re hiding, Eds.”

Eddie gives him a deadpan look. It’s a little blurry, but Richie is well accustomed to Eddie’s glares by now. He would say they have no effect, but that wouldn’t be strictly speaking true. It’s just not affected in the way Eddie _intends._ Which is, in turn, all the more hilarious for Richie. 

It’s kind of how their entire friendship works. 

“This doesn’t look like hiding, dipshit.” Eddie raises an eyebrow and crosses his arms, just baiting Richie to try arguing. 

He’s such a prissy little shit; Richie fucking loves him. 

Richie turns all the way around, heaving a sigh but he’s smiling as he spins on his heel. He’s fully prepared to give Eddie a run for his verbal money, or pinch his cheeks, or further exasperate him—the options are all fucking good—when Richie spots his target over Eddie’s prim shoulder: the janitor’s closet. _Bingo._

“Hold that thought,” Richie says, holding up a finger. He strides across the hallway and tries for the handle. It’s unlocked, which he considers a small cosmic miracle. Richie slides in, motioning for Eddie to follow. There’s a little slit of a window in the door that will suit them just fine. “ _Yes.”_ Richie fistbumps the air. “Best seats in the house, Eds.” 

“Don’t fucking call me that,” Eddie mutters, but he dutifully looks out the window too, as if to verify Richie’s findings. 

It’s a little hard to make out the _other_ side of the hallway, the even-numbered lockers being the location of Richie’s latest pride and joy, but he can _just_ make out the locker that was Hockstetter’s claim to fame before being passed down to the next resident bully. The administration didn’t even bother removing the graffiti from the door, as though they knew exactly who they were passing the torch to. Fucking self-fulling prophecy, if you ask Richie. 

“Oh, this is gonna be brilliant.” Richie rubs his fingertips together in anticipation. 

Beside him, Eddie snorts. “You don’t even know when he’s gonna show up, dipshit.”

Richie slides his glasses back up his nose. It’s way easier to see Eddie when they’re standing side by side. “Hey, I’m not _obsessed_ with him. It’s not my fault I don’t have his entire school schedule memorized.”

Eddie rolls his eyes. “Sure, just obsessed with some stupid prank. Which, by the way, will get you _more_ attention, not less.”

Richie peers back out the window. “It’s not my own attention status I’m worried about, Kaspbrak. I am ridding the world of an unnecessary evil. You know he threatened to follow up on the scar Bowers left behind on Ben? Not on my watch, no sir.”

“If you think you sound like Bill right now, I’m here to tell you: you really fucking don’t.”

Richie covers his heart in patriotic salute. “Oh, trust me, I know. There can be only one Big Bill.” 

Eddie snickers, but he sounds more pleased than annoyed. “Wow, Trashmouth. That actually sounded halfway serious.”

It’s just the sort of rare opening that warrants one of Richie’s voices, in his humble opinion. He’s leaning toward a parodied version of a radio program he helpfully calls _small-town cop,_ complete with a mild Irish inflection he’s been working on, but Eddie’s eyes widen when Richie inhales. Richie presumes this reaction is warranted, in preparation for the voice itself until Eddie’s eyes _keep_ widening, looking past Richie to the scene beyond the tiny pane of glass. “Careful!” Eddie hisses, shoving Richie away from the window. Credit where credit is due: Eddie is stronger than he looks. 

“Fucking _ow,”_ Richie complains, but Eddie shushes him with a wild flail of his arms. “Oh, you can’t be serious—”

But Eddie _is_ serious, and Richie has pushed too far: Eddie stomps straight up to him like a fucking gazelle and slaps his hand over Richie’s mouth. 

It’s worth mentioning that Eddie _never_ touches Richie’s mouth. He complains about Richie’s mouth, he talks about Richie’s mouth, but never touches. _You wanna know why? Because you’re fucking disgusting,_ is the usual excuse, and Richie never much bothered to question it further than that. It was funny, for awhile, to initiate baby cooing noises in Eddie’s direction, before reaching high school when Richie could tell the jokes went a little too far: Eddie was too much of a mommy’s boy for the joke to stick the landing, and there was nothing particularly funny about pretending Eddie was still a kid, even if he hadn’t sprouted up like the rest of them. 

Point being, Richie never bothered to wonder if there was any real _reason_ Eddie never quit talking about Richie’s mouth when Richie quit joking in the reverse. Richie would fire back, but he would never initiate, and it never occurred to him _why_ until this very moment, with Eddie’s chest pressed against his front, and Eddie’s hand across his mouth. 

Richie is not proud of the fact that he sort of wants to lick Eddie’s palm. Not proud at all. 

But it does shock Richie into amicable compliance, which Eddie should definitely take as the rare victory that it is. Richie doesn’t think Eddie is thinking about amicable compliance, though, because he’s gone stock still, cheeks stained red. 

_Very interesting._

Eddie keeps eye contact with Richie through it all, as though he has this burning desire to prove that he isn’t scared. That he’s unaffected. Richie thinks that’s total bullshit, but he’s willing to roll with Eddie’s paperthin excuses if it makes him happy. Which, Eddie clearly isn’t _happy_ in the strictest sense of the word, but Richie thinks that has more to do with Eddie’s perceived notion that Richie is going to make a joke than any sort chagrin on his own part. 

He put himself in this position, after all. 

Eddie releases some of his grip from Richie’s mouth. “Not a word,” he whispers, but the hand stays close by, ready to smack Richie upside the head at a moment’s notice. 

Richie smiles, feeling high on adrenaline. He’s got a good old fashioned prank under his belt, and he’s got Eddie Kaspbrak in a closet, possibly flirting with him. Really badly, but still. The net result is a win. 

Eddie’s eyes roll so hard, Richie is surprised they’re still inside his skull. “You know what I mean, dumbass.” The hand falls away, but it doesn’t stray far, stopping just short of Richie’s chest in a loose embrace. 

Richie reaches up to pick imaginary lint off Eddie’s shoulder. Sometimes he’s a subtle flirt, okay? “I wasn’t going to say anything.”

Eddie looks a little surprised at the contact, but doesn’t move. Richie smirks. Eddie stares a little too intently at Richie’s nose, before his gaze finally makes it up to Richie’s eyes. “Yeah,” he catches up, two seconds too late. “Right.”

“There’s more than one way to shut me up, you know,” Richie replies, shrugging one shoulder. Is it a terrible line? Yes. It is a little more than half-serious? Also yes. 

Eddie looks more than a little shell-shocked. If Richie were to hazard a guess, he’d categorize Eddie’s expression as a cross between looking like Richie had scrambled his brain, and shocked delight at being locked in a closet with a teenaged boy.

There are _so_ many jokes ripe for the picking there, but...even Richie can tell now just _isn’t_ the time. 

“Oh yeah?” Eddie’s voice is barely a squeak. Richie is fucking _delighted._

“Yeah,” Richie whispers, and lets his gaze wander, just a little. Just enough to be a question all on its own. 

And Eddie fucking _answers,_ as Richie hoped he would. Eddie lifts up on tiptoe, just enough to bring him into Richie’s eyeline, using the hand at Richie’s chest for balance. Nothing happens, exactly, except that they’re breathing the same air, but the _promise_ of something is simmering between their eyes, their hands, their fucking bodies standing right fucking there, and Richie can’t help but meet Eddie halfway, curious and more than a little fascinated by the concept of their bodies intertwined. 

It is an overlarge, poignant point of tragedy when Richie hears a distant “ _Tozier!”_ echoing down the hall, loud and unmistakable. Eddie springs backward, nearly tripping over Richie’s shoes in the process. Richie, in turn, tries to save _both_ their balances by wrapping a hand around Eddie’s waist, which results in even _more_ fumbling, and Eddie scrambling further backward, which is fucking _awkward_ as all hell and _Jesus,_ it’s honestly a miracle they don’t wind up thrashed together on the floor in the aftermath. 

Not that Richie would really mind, but that’s a topic for another day. 

Eddie is still blushing, which is scientifically interesting, but back to analyzing his wardrobe for germs, which is less so. Richie opts to allow Eddie some space, choosing to perch near the door, waiting for the footsteps to recede. When the coast looks clear, Richie reaches for the handle. Ready to run.

“Hey, Rich?” Eddie asks, voice terrifyingly small. 

Richie releases the doorknob with an audible _click._ Looking back, he’s just now noticing how fucking dark it is in here. Richie blinks through the darkness to make out the finer details of Eddie’s face. “Yeah?”

Eddie is fidgeting again, in a way Richie hasn’t seen since he first threw away the fucking inhaler. It’s different than Eddie’s usual nerves: more anxiety-induced, less adorable throwaway OCD mannerisms. Richie can’t describe how he knows the difference, just that he does: it all has to do with the level of intensity. 

And it’s Richie’s fucking fault. 

Richie isn’t thinking when he steps forward. He isn’t thinking when he grabs Eddie’s hand, giving him something—someone—to focus on. It’s the Richie Tozier equivalent of an apology, maybe. It’s an unspoken accord they’ve signed together dozens of times. It’s familiar. It’s needed. 

It gets Eddie to fucking look at him, for a start. 

Eddie stares fervently enough Richie starts to wonder if he has something on his face. His glasses are broken. The frames are crooked. His face looks fucking dumb, he doesn’t fucking know. It’s the type of intense scrutiny Richie rarely allows, because it means someone is getting a little too close, a little too familiar to be comfortable. Richie wears most emotions on his sleeve, but there are a few tucked away behind his lenses that are VIP only. 

Lucky for him, Eddie just so happens to be very important indeed. 

“I just…” Eddie looks down at their hands, a little knot forming on his forehead. Richie doesn’t really understand how someone who looks so constipated can look so fucking adorable all the time, but also doesn’t bother questioning the line of thought. It’s long since passed from questionable territory into simple fact, as welcome and familiar as Eddie’s smaller hand dangled in his own. 

“Thank you. For bringing me along on your adventure.” Eddie looks up at Richie with an expression that looks dangerously close to open adoration. But that would be fucking stupid, wouldn’t it? Richie is just imagining things. 

Isn’t he? 

“You’re welcome, Eds.” Richie feels a lot of things, in that moment. Warm and hopeless and stupid, to name a few, but also a little like he’s floating. “Anytime.”

Eddie smiles, a tiny little thing, letting Richie know he’s alright. _They’re_ alright. His fingers squeeze, a contract dotted and lined with some proverbial promise, some meaning Richie can’t quite ascertain.

Richie doesn’t know what to do with that kind of intensity. Doesn’t know if he’ll hold up under the scrutiny, so instead he goes for the usual, tried-and-true tactic.

A fucking joke. 

“If you’re scared of the bullies,” Richie whispers, head ducked low, “I can go out first, make sure it’s safe.”

Eddie’s eyes are twin stars in the dark. “I’m not afraid,” he whispers back, tone firm like he’s trying a voice of his own, chalk full of conviction. 

“‘Course you’re not,” Richie says, squeezing. “You’re the bravest of us all.”

Richie doesn’t mean it as some huge statement. It is, and yet it isn’t. For Richie, it’s just common fucking knowledge, the kind of truth that’s been published and advertised for years. But Eddie inhales like the wind’s been knocked clean out of him, like Richie just punched him in the fucking gut, and it’s all Richie can do to watch, in microscopic detail, as Eddie’s face transforms to that of surprising vulnerability. 

“You think so?” Eddie whispers. 

“Uh,” Richie stares, like a dumbass. “Yeah. Who stood up to his mother after having his arm fucking broken? Not me, that’s for sure.”

But Eddie just rolls his eyes. “You literally just trashed a bully’s locker, Richie, I think that constitutes as brave.”

Richie considers this. “Or incredibly fucking stupid,” he says, just to hear Eddie laugh. 

And, like fireworks, Eddie’s laughter sparks on cue. “Yeah, or that.”

“That’s why I have you here,” Richie sways their hands, back and forth. “To keep my head on straight.”

Eddie’s smile, when it blooms, is so fucking sweet it’d give Ben a run for his money. “It’s a full time job.”

Richie smirks. “Oh, I have no doubt about that.”

Then Eddie does something Richie does not expect, and this after a full summer spent with Eddie surprising Richie in all new and expressive ways. Eddie stands back up on tiptoe, digs his free hand into Richie’s shoulder, and presses his lips to Richie’s cheek, just shy of knocking into his glasses. Just a peck, a blink and then he’s gone, back on solid ground, meanwhile Richie’s head is stuck in the clouds. 

Eddie sniggers at Richie’s dumbfounded expression. “C’mon, dumbass. Let’s go see your handiwork,” he says, bolting out the door like Richie is the slow one. 

Richie stands there for another ten fucking seconds, before finally walking out the door and back into Eddie’s life with the ultimate conclusion that Eddie is right, always, and Richie doesn’t have a fucking clue. 

Either way, it’s totally worth the detention Richie’s going to get tomorrow. 

* * *

It keeps happening. 

Sometimes Eddie’s actions are large, sometimes they’re small, but they’re always _new._ Always pointed in Richie’s general direction. After the first and second incidents, Richie left their encounters with his brain mostly intact. After the third and fourth, his brain was muddled, but more or less functional. After the fifth, higher brain function vacated the premises. 

It’s getting to the point where Richie is almost scared to be around Eddie altogether, for fear that everything he’s thinking—or worse, what he’s _feeling—_ will show on his face. Or his groin. Or in general fucking _anywhere._

Richie is not good at being fucking _subtle._

He’s never been afraid of Eddie before; there’s never been anything to fear. Despite Richie’s bullshit about boning Sonia Kaspbrak on the regular, and frenching Monica from Spanish class that time when they were twelve, Richie’s experience is not necessarily elaborate, or at least, not as elaborate as it seems. Still, Richie would bet his bottom dollar he’s seen more action than Eddie Kaspbrak, a point he reminds Eddie of constantly, just to see how wide and emphatic those big brown eyes can actually get. Eddie can rattle off facts about sex like he’s the general manager of a pharmecutical company, but Richie has a handful of memories to go along with the textbook reference of making out. Together they make a strange amalgamation of sex education: complete, but not exactly pretty, and next to useless when it comes to comparing notes. 

Richie’s a flirt, sure, and it’s not a fucking secret he flirts with Eddie the most. He wouldn’t enjoy it as much as he does if not for Eddie giving as good as he gets, made more impressive by the fact that Eddie doesn’t have a leg to stand on but stands his ground anyway. He’s got some balls, Eddie Kaspbrak, and hell if Richie doesn’t enjoy the show. The pride, the snark, the anger, the _blushing._ It’s fucking fantastic, and better than any fireworks show Richie has ever seen. 

Eddie might overreact when it comes to Richie’s _experience,_ with Sonia being a point of contention from here to kingdom come, but the whole of Richie’s romantic life is not a point Richie drives home with any sort of vindictiveness or spite. Richie’s antics are loud and proud but they’re mostly intended to make the absurd normal, and to fill any hole of awkwardness with whatever form of ridiculousness he can. 

There’s also the small detail of capturing Eddie’s full attention. But that’s nothing new. 

What _is_ new is the playing field being leveled out so they’re ubiquitously equal. Now Eddie offers to lick Richie’s rocket pop—what the _fuck—_ and share each other’s lunch, the latter of which is admittedly semi-normal, but not habitual. Now Eddie touches his hands when they’re passing prescription bottles with a sort of quiet fierceness that is in no way unintentional, and his fingers linger on Richie’s face when he cleans Richie’s glasses, which is now a bizarre, once-a-week ritual. Richie would account for this as the Eddie Kaspbrak equivalent of flirting, but he’s got nothing from which to draw comparison, and the absence makes Richie double-guess everything he’s learned up until this point. Would it be more normal for Eddie to flirt by reading off the terms and conditions by which Eddie is allowed to experience romance, or would Eddie flirt by tearing down some walls and inviting someone in to read the fine print? 

Richie’s got no fucking clue. 

In lieu of his own existential answers, Richie finds himself wanting to ask, again and again: “Who _are you,_ and what have you done with Eddie Kaspbrak?” The universe—or maybe it’s just Derry—has a funny fucking sense of humor, so of course Richie’s anxiety peaks like a fucking volcano during a showing of _Dances with Wolves,_ when Eddie licks butter from his fingers—his fucking _fingers—_ while they’re sharing a bag of popcorn. Richie’s brain almost blurts, “Where has my sweet Eddie boy gone?”, before realizing with abject horror the thought sounds exactly like Sonia _fucking_ Kaspbrak, and promptly sits his ass in the theater seat for the entire fucking runtime, thinking about horses and mothers and wanting to bury his head in sand. Even Eddie seems to notice Richie’s bizarre behavior, offering Richie popcorn not once, not twice, but three fucking times, until Richie can’t take it anymore and excuses himself to the back alleyway of the cinema, where he gulps in breaths of air like the werewolf is back on his heels, his name etched in the seams. 

What a fucking coward. What the fuck is _wrong_ with him? 

That’s where Eddie finds him, a hyperventilating mess next to the dumpster of Aladdin Theater, hunched over a pile of trash. He’s expecting a joke—the location begs it, and it’s what Richie himself would do—but Eddie’s always been the better fucking person. He lays a hand on Richie’s arm, waits until the labored breaths come fewer and fewer between, then tucks himself in the crevice of Richie’s shoulder in the Eddie Kaspbrak equivalent of a hug. Which is to say: it’s really fucking nice. 

“Thanks,” Richie mutters, his voice muffled by Eddie’s hooded sweatshirt. He smells like popcorn and laundry detergent, but the warmth is comforting. 

“What’s going on with you?” Eddie asks, though the question sounds kinder from Eddie’s mouth, Eddie’s lips. His voice quivers with failing courage, like he’s standing on the cliff’s edge and Richie is suddenly aware, with newfound clarity, that they _are_ on the edge of something, standing on the brink, and Eddie was aware of it long before Richie became conscious of its existence. 

Ain’t _that_ a fucking twist. 

Richie considers lying. He’s not proud of it, and hell if he’d admit to it, but for a moment of sorry pride, he considers using his trademark get out of jail free card. The singular _I’m Rich Tozier, loud mouth extraordinaire_ that no one would even question, possibly even Eddie, because it’s just normal. Because Richie has never had a bad thought in his life, never had doubts, never had insecurities. To the whole of Derry, he’s as one dimensional as a side character in a shitty novel: one half of a comic relief duo who doesn’t have any depth outside the jokes. 

And maybe that, right there, is the most terrifying part. The choice is twofold: accept the thought, the doubt, the _question,_ but in the process lay himself bare. Vulnerable in a way he hasn’t been since the fucking clown. 

Eddie wouldn’t be afraid to ask. Eddie would be brave. But Richie isn’t like that, and there isn’t a sewer full of greywater for him to test his strength or drown himself trying. 

Besides, what if he’s wrong? What if Eddie really has been innocuously trying out new experiences, and Richie is the pervert who’s been reading things the wrong way? They’ve always been close, so maybe it’s more of the same, imbued with Eddie’s new trial and error aptly entitled: _Try new shit, and test Richie’s libido in the process._

Richie doesn’t know which thought would be preferable, at this point. 

“I uh.” Richie leans back, realizing with a second wave of horror that he’s been hugging Eddie’s shoulders a second too long, a little too tight. Eddie’s eyes are wide and innocent in the alley, shoulders piqued up in heartfelt interest. The light from the streetlamp reaches just far enough into the gloom to highlight the slope of Eddie’s cheekbones, like he’s an exhibit in a fucking museum. He’s beautiful, Richie thinks, but it’s more than that. He’s _too_ beautiful. Too elegant for this trash heap, too refined for Richie Tozier’s sweaty hands, his dirty clothes, his perverted heart. 

Maybe they don’t fit, after all. 

“Just needed a smoke.” Richie sticks his hands in his pockets, etches the box between a thumb and forefinger. Doesn’t pull it out, doesn’t light up. Just traces the outline over and over in the Richie Tozier equivalent of nerves. He’s got itchy fingers, but not for anything in his pocket, and _god,_ it’s not even a joke. What a goddamn waste. 

“Oh,” Eddie says, and he sounds—disappointed? Richie’s said the wrong thing, but that’s not anything new. It wasn’t an insult, or even a joke, which makes Eddie’s response...interesting. Potentially promising. 

“What are you doing out here?” Richie asks, because a little confirmation can’t hurt. 

“Just…” Eddie’s fingers fidget with the strings of his hoodie, looking nervous, and Richie is hit with an avalanche of desire to do something reckless, something hairbrained and crazy. Something that seemed improbable, a pretty little dream, and everyone knows dreams never really come true in Derry. Everyone knows nightmares are the reigning terror here. Only monsters are real. Only nightmares. Only promises written in blood. Only scars. 

Then again, Richie’s always been a little foolish, and Ben isn’t the only optimist in the group. No one’s really stuck around after the laughter stops, nobody except the fucking clown, which should be a lesson in itself, but...Richie can’t help but hope. It leaves him a little wild, a little lightheaded, a little like all the blood is tethered directly to his dick, and it’s terrifying, sure, but it’s also goddamn glorious. The best kind of rush. 

And the thought that Eddie might be hoping, too? The thought that he might _want_ Richie? 

_Fuck._ The mental image alone is doing to murder him. 

Richie pauses, then shrugs mentally. Still a better way to go than a fucking clown. 

“Just wanted to check on you.” Eddie’s eyes snap up, which is his first and last mistake. He physically falters, for a moment, before his eyes narrow like he can see Richie’s every dirty thought. He probably can. 

Eddie points a finger. “You _did_ take off in the middle of a feature. Thought maybe you were having a stroke.”

Richie considers this. “You are the closest thing we have to a medical doctor.” 

Eddie juts his chin, proud. “Damn straight.”

 _Sure hope not,_ Richie doesn’t say, which is an amazing comeback, yes, but also close enough to home it’s vaguely mortifying. Which means it’s immediately replaced with the runner up thought, which out of Richie’s mouth is: “Not sure I can afford your rates, though.” 

It kind of...happens. Flirting is a Tozier gift, Richie’s always said, so it’s just instinct now, reflexive, to give Eddie as good as he gets. 

Eddie stops, giving Richie a considering onceover. It’s not strictly speaking _sexy,_ but to be fair Richie’s brain is on a temporary leave of absence. Or maybe this is just normal. 

It’s probably just normal. 

“Well, your brain is clearly fine,” Eddie pronounces, looking vaguely unimpressed. The sight of Eddie’s nose scrunching in distaste is strangely comforting, like some form of balance has been restored. As far as equilibrium goes, it’s about as effective as Eddie’s hug. Which is to say: it’s good. 

_Fuck,_ it’s good. 

“Debatable,” Richie scoffs. 

“Clearly.”

They smile at each other, stupid sweet. Richie slings an arm over Eddie’s shoulder. “C’mon, Eds.”

They mosey back inside with a lazy sort of grace, bumping shoulders and knocking elbows like the world’s most lopsided, misshapen pretzel. Richie can’t stop smiling, which is ridiculous, but if anyone asks he has thirty _your mom_ jokes tucked up his sleeves, armed and ready. 

The rest of the gang gives them a few cursory glances when they return arm in arm, curious. “You okay, R-Richie?” Bill asks, because of course he does. 

“Yeah, man. Can’t a guy take a leak?” Richie replies, voice echoing, which earns them at least three separate shushes, which is just fucking hilarious. Richie is proud, because he’s a little insane in the membrane, and because he’s happy. There’s still the nagging thought, a wonderment that repeats _what the fuck_ like a beacon in Eddie’s direction every few minutes, but it’s quieted down to a low hum, especially when Eddie smiles his way, quietly pleased, because this is a secret they get to fucking keep. 

Richie had a brief bout of mental insanity, but they’re fine. They’re still normal, they’re still them. It’s just that now, when they’re at the theater, they touch hands. Eddie shares his popcorn with Richie, then hisses at anyone else who would dare try to snatch a piece. Eddie invites Richie places—just him—and hopes he can make it. Eddie cleans his glasses. Eddie tried his cigarette. Eddie helped with a prank. Eddie held his hand. 

Richie licks his fingers, smacking obnoxiously enough Stan elbows him in the ribs to make him stop. Richie cackles in delight, and pretends not to notice Eddie staring. A lone piece of popcorn falls to Eddie’s lap, utterly forgotten.

 _Bingo,_ Richie thinks, smug. 

Payback never tasted so fucking good. 

* * *

It goes in a routine like that for awhile: Richie and Eddie are bound to the hip, like always, but their antics are dialed up to the extreme. It becomes the most convoluted game of gay chicken Richie has ever seen, but then, he hasn’t seen that many up close. Not that he’s complaining, mind; he’s got the best seats in the house. The excuses for why they’re in each other’s company—why they’re constantly wrestling, why they’re entangled, why Eddie needs to sit plastered to Richie’s side on movie night, why Eddie needs to be Richie’s partner at the arcade—are all paper thin at best, but to call the bluff would give wind to the chase and _that,_ it seems, is the unofficial rule of this entire house of cards: do not call it out into the light. 

Richie knows it can’t last, nothing ever does, but that’s never stopped him from chasing after happiness before. Full force, top speed, for however long he can. For however long it lasts. 

* * *

SIXTEEN |

This is, by far, the stupidest fucking thing Richie has ever done. 

Which is saying a lot. 

Richie has accomplished many a stupid stunt in his life. It’s a list he’s quite proud of, if he’s honest, because it means he’s lived. He’s lived, he’s breathed, he’s experienced. He’s _happy._ Richie Tozier post-Pennywise had...a minor setback, sure, but he moved passed it. Eddie’s “ _I’m a new man”_ scheme helped plenty, not that Richie will ever admit it to his face. And that is precisely why, at approximately 11:00pm on a Friday, Richie vaults himself up the slippery as _fuck_ siding of the Kaspbrak residence, Spider-Man style. 

Because he’s intent on returning the favor. Not that Eddie will know the precise reason, but the intent is something Richie would prefer to keep close to the chest. Because Richie is full of jokes and light-heartedness and joy, that to see anything more permanent, more real, might make the past few months of low-key flirting disappear. 

And he can’t do that. He can’t lose Eddie. 

By the time he makes it to his beloved’s window, Richie is pretty sure he has a grass stain on his ass, his knees, and possibly his t-shirt. Which is a shame, because Richie actually gave two shits about his appearance tonight. He’s wearing his favorite _ACDC_ band tee, with matching black jeans and holes only in the knees. The _knees!_ He brushed his teeth. He put on fucking _cologne._ All so he could slip from the roof and land on his ass to sport a fucking tailbone bruise. 

Richie sniffs the inside of his shirt. _Well,_ he thinks, _this is as good as it’s gonna get._

He really should have thought to pack a backup shirt. Ah, well. Next time. 

He had this whole plan, too. He was going to throw a few pebbles, romantic-style, then shimmy on up the side of Eddie’s house after practicing a few times. What Richie didn’t account for was the fucking _weather,_ which turned out to be a real bitch and added condensation to the mix. So the grass was full of fucking _dew,_ and Richie’s grand romantic gesture was now tainted with grass stains, and grass smell, and—goddamn it—a wet ass. 

At least his outfit is black? Or something?

The plan turns out to be moot point, at least the pebble-throwing bit, because Eddie appears in the window as Richie is lying there, on his back, contemplating his fate while staring at the stars. The frame opens with a low whine, which, side note: they need to get that fixed _pronto._ If Sonia catches on, there’s no way Richie will ever convince Eddie to join him on a harebrained adventure like this one again. 

_If_ he can convince Eddie to join him on a harebrained adventure like this one. 

“Richie?” Eddie’s voice is small and concerned. Which is fair, because since the theater incident, Richie’s been a little concerned about his mental well-being, too. 

“Hey there, Eds,” Richie waves, not bothering to sit up. Damn, that parkour really took a lot out of him. He really should practice some of those exercises Eddie is always yelling at him to try. Richie groans, stretching his back with an audible _pop._ On second thought, he’s not sure any exercises would work in these jeans. He was aiming to impress, alright? His scrawny ass is _on display_ tonight. Which is no small feat, because Richie has almost no ass to show off. It takes _talent._ And preparation. And a lot of ogling in mirrors. 

Fucking _fuck,_ his back hurts. 

Richie heaves himself upright. His head is only mildly woozy, which he counts as success. 

“What are you doing here?” Eddie hiss-whispers. 

“What’s it look like?” Richie retorts, automatic. He runs his fingers through his hair in an attempt at a style. _Time to shine, baby._

“Uh,” Eddie squints down at him, hands on either side of the windowsill. “Laying on your ass?”

Richie looks down at himself. At least his shirt still looks good. “That’s...fair.”

“Did you fucking _fall?”_ Eddie’s still whispering, which makes his high-pitched anger all the more adorable. Richie can’t help it; he fucking giggles. 

“Oh my god,” Eddie crawls out his window. He’s wearing pajamas, bright blue and fucking _cute,_ grumbling under his breath. “You probably have a concussion or something.”

Richie waves Eddie’s concern away. “Just a bruised tailbone and a mild hit to my pride. I’ll be fine.”

Eddie rolls his eyes. “Says the person who is the least concerned with his own health and well-being. Come here, let’s take a look at least.”

Richie’s eyes narrow. He thinks about it, then smiles with sultry glee. “Is this a line to get me in your room, Kaspbrak? You know all you had to do was ask.”

Eddie glares. “Get your bruised ass over here, dipshit,” he says, pointing. “You know _you_ came _here,_ first. Fucking weirdo.”

Richie does as instructed, standing and brushing the grass from his knees. “Yeah,” he replies, a little dopey. “You know I have lines for you, baby.”

Eddie doesn’t bother replying, crawling back inside his bedroom so his feet don’t freeze. Richie manages to successfully make it to the roof this time, vaulting off the garbage can with just enough arm reach to grapple his way from siding to gutter. In a rare bout of gratitude, Richie is grateful Sonia Kaspbrak bothers to take care of her house; elsewise Richie would be back on the ground and Sonia herself would be standing above him, wondering at the resounding crash that peeled off half her gutter. 

So. There’s that, at least. 

Richie slams his head on the window as he crawls in, which somehow hurts worse than falling from Eddie’s roof. Richie whimpers a string of _fuckity fuck fuck fuck_ under his breath that Eddie immediately shushes him about. “You’ll wake my mom up,” he bites, but still offers Richie a hand the rest of the way inside, so there’s that, too. 

Standing upright, Richie rubs his head. “You changed?” he asks, staring at Eddie’s new outfit, comprised of jeans and a Derry sweatshirt. 

Eddie gives him a look like Richie has suffered permanent brain damage. “Uh, yeah. You came here to convince me to leave, didn’t you?”

Richie messes his hair back into place under the pretense of rubbing at his bruised head. He has this sinking feeling he looks like an idiot regardless. “Well, yeah. But I thought…” Eddie raises an eyebrow, and Richie trails off, helpless. “I thought you would take some convincing. I had a plan and everything.”

Eddie looks a little like he wants to laugh. He crosses his arms, which highlights his red cheeks. Maroon’s a good color on him. Striking, against his pale skin and dark eyes. “And what did this plan entail, exactly?”

Oh, shit. “Uh, you know.” Richie shoves his hands in his pockets. God, he feels tall in here. His hair nearly brushes the ceiling, and he never feels quite so lanky as when he’s staring at Eddie in his own tiny bedroom. Still, Richie can’t deny that he likes it here. Everything is organized as fuck, of course, but it’s the only the part of the Kaspbrak residence that feels like it’s really _Eddie’s._ It may be cleaned or hidden away, but Richie knows just where Eddie’s fingerprints are in this room, knows just what he hides beneath the bed or underneath the covers. Sometimes, on rare occasions, even Richie himself. 

“Well, it started with a smoother entrance, that’s for sure,” Richie mutters. 

Eddie rolls his eyes again, but the look on his face is fond. Almost endearing. “You’ve never been smooth a day in your life, Richie.”

“That’s not what your mom says…” Richie starts, but Eddie rushes forward and shoves him right between the ribs. “Ow! Your fucking elbows, dude.”

But Eddie just smiles, vaguely maniacal. “They’re weapons of mass destruction; I use them wisely.”

“I’ll say,” Richie says, grinning. 

They stare at each other for a couple seconds; Eddie’s hands are cold where they’ve wormed beneath Richie’s shirt. He shudders, slight. 

Eddie’s face goes slack, fingers moving to latch onto Richie’s elbow. He leads Richie in the direction of the bed. “Let me take a look at your head.”

“That’s what— _”_

Eddie releases a breath that sounds like a wheeze. “ _Fucking—”_

Richie holds up both hands. “Beep, beep, I get it.” He sits down with a sigh. “It’s really not bad.”

“I’ll be the judge of that,” Eddie whispers, back to his usual _my-mom-might-be-listening_ schtick. The Kaspbrak house always carries the inherent threat of silence that Richie consistently wars against, but it’s a different kind of quiet here. Not awkward, but charged. Fearful, but not in a devastating way. It may very well be the one place Richie goes where he doesn’t do much talking at all, but more importantly, it’s the one place Richie goes where he doesn’t feel the _need_ to do much talking at all. 

For once, he’s not talking about Eddie Kaspbrak’s mother. 

It’s because he’s comfortable with Eddie, maybe. Because Richie knows Eddie won’t judge him. Because out of all their friends, the entire club, Eddie might very well be the closest to knowing who Richie Tozier _really_ is, beneath the bravado, beneath the jokes. 

That’s not to say Richie is always fine with stopping over. He doesn’t like to bother Eddie, and Richie knows he’s asking a lot each time he shows up. His visits are frequent, but not too frequent. Long, but not too long. Richie reserves his dropping by for special occasions, for times he really needs...something. A friend, maybe. Comfort. A distraction, and Eddie is always the best for that. Not that Richie would ever admit it out loud, but he thinks Eddie knows. Because sometimes Eddie even asks him first. 

Just like Eddie knows when Richie means to stay for awhile, and when he needs to leave. Times like tonight. 

Eddie’s fingers continue their inspection of Richie’s hair, while Richie continues his inspection of the vinyl lettering of Eddie’s high school sweatshirt. It’s funny, Richie thinks, that they bother advertising for this town at all. What’s the point, when nobody fucking cares? The only group who did were the Loser’s, and you don’t see them advertising their time down in the sewers, battling a supernatural demon. 

“Looks good,” Eddie proclaims, hands sliding down to either side of Richie’s face. Richie looks up at him, feeling more peaceful and more serious than he has in weeks, maybe even years, and it’s not often Richie feels like this: sated and thoughtful, curious but calm. 

Eddie feels it too, Richie thinks, his thumbs brushing parallel sides of Richie’s temples, resting near his jaw. He’s taller than Richie like this, taller and braver where he stands in front of the bedroom light, casting his body in a white-orange glow. Eddie has always been someone Richie admired, even from afar, but sitting here in his bedroom, clothes changed and hand outstretched to embark on another adventure in the dark…

Richie knows what that trust means. 

Richie swallows. Eddie’s eyes track down to Richie’s throat. “Ready to go?”

“Yeah,” Eddie whispers, but when Richie stands up, Eddie rushes forward to swallow Richie in a hug, twin arms fastened around Richie’s ribcage. 

Eddie doesn’t dole out hugs often. Rarely, in fact, though they’re mostly reserved for Richie. Richie never really bothered questioning it, or asking why; it’s one of those precious rarities that to call attention to it might mean the end of it happening ever again. After Pennywise Eddie had been more open about affection, but always in starts and stops, always seemingly random, designed and designated just to catch Richie off guard. Not that he’s complaining; Richie’s brain catches up after a stutter-stop, hands sliding around Eddie’s back. 

It’s quiet. So quiet Richie can hear crickets chirping outside and the faint hum of Sonia’s TV program downstairs. So quiet Richie can hear the sound of his heartbeat tripping up in his chest, rising and falling in frenetic energy before mellowing out, slowing down, the longer Eddie stays just where he is, almost like he means it. Almost like _they_ do, almost like he never intends to let go. 

Eddie tightens his grip, cheek pressing right against Richie’s sternum, right against the most vulnerable place Richie knows. He wouldn’t allow this kind of affection from most people, wouldn’t allow it for quite this long, but with Eddie it’s different. 

With Eddie it’s always been different. 

Eddie peels himself away, rubbing at his nose. “Thanks for coming,” he mumbles, and won’t look Richie in the eye. 

Richie rubs at his neck. “Yeah, no problem,” he replies, trying to think of all the ways to respond to a compliment and not sound like a douche in the same fucking sentence. 

His mind’s still churning when Eddie’s nose wrinkles adorably, those dark eyes analyzing Richie in a new light. “Are you wearing fucking _cologne?”_ he demands, his voice going a little high. 

Richie smiles, loud and proud, then snaps his mouth closed just before Eddie’s hand covers it, stopping whatever dumbass response is poised there from ever seeing the light of day. Richie is seconds away from licking his palm, just to watch Eddie shriek, but Eddie beats him to the punch: he rolls his eyes and pulls his hand away to grab Richie’s hand instead, tugging him back outside and into the night. Back on the rooftop, Eddie shoves Richie half-heartedly back down the siding of his house before gracefully tip-toeing his way down himself, which seems fucking unfair if you ask Richie, who’s landed back where he started: on his ass, in the grass, staring at the stars. 

“Fucking unfair,” Richie says, mock-pouting. “You make it look so easy.”

“Stop growing so fast and it _would_ be easy.” Eddie puts a foot on Richie’s ribcage, not with any real pressure, but with enough threat that Richie’s aching ribs cry out in agony. Richie retaliates by throwing the leg out entirely, which results in Eddie half-falling on Richie’s torso, which knocks the wind clean out of him. But they’re both smiling, both wheezing as they mock fight on the grass, which Richie thinks is perfectly fucking fitting, because they should both end the evening with matching ass stains.

They call truce after Eddie lands a particularly sharp elbow-punch to Richie’s lower thigh, which is fair in everyone’s book. Richie offers a hand to get them back on their feet and Eddie takes it, not complaining once about the state of their clothes, or the germs in the grass, or the dirt on their jeans. He just smiles up at Richie, a little shy, a little nervous, a little like he knows this is something special, and Richie fucking knows, just then, that he’s not alone. 

Maybe he never has been. 

* * *

It’s not a secret that Eddie is afraid of the dark. 

Well. _Afraid_ might be a bit of an overstatement, but the point still stands. It’s the same way everyone knows not to mention Ben’s scar on his belly, or Bill’s absence when it rains. The matching slices on their palms weren’t the only wounds that needed time to heal, and Eddie’s aversion to being left alone in the dark is one of them. Richie knows, and he takes special care to make sure Eddie is comfortable. Tonight of all nights. 

Because tonight is _the_ night.

Richie doesn’t know what the means, exactly, but he does know that Eddie has been building to something this entire fucking year, maybe even longer than that. Richie is wary of the assumption that Eddie has set his sights on Richie of all people, not because he’s not a catch, mind, but because he’s _Richie:_ Eddie screams about Richie’s hygiene habits and general boyishness until he’s blue in the face. Unless there’s a special _reason_ Eddie always pointed out Richie’s so-called flaws, almost as though Eddie had been paying extra attention from the beginning…

It seems too fantastical to believe, but even Richie can’t ignore the facts: every time Eddie has embarked on one of his _let’s do something reckless together_ schemes, he’s asked for Richie’s help to do it. Which means...something. 

If pressed, Richie would compare it to the times he’d gone stargazing and a particular celestial being caught his eye. If he stared at it too long, kept his focus in one spot for longer than thirty seconds, the star would seemingly fade, to the point where Richie wondered if it had ever really been there. Then he would turn his gaze elsewhere, curiosity distracting him, and there it would be: twinkling in Richie’s peripheral as it had been all along. 

That’s kind of what this thing with Eddie feels like: staring at a star. 

True to form, Eddie’s eyes roll when Richie opens the passenger door like a fucking gentleman, but they widen when they see the interior of Richie’s truck. Richie’s made her up pretty, cleaned out the trash and wiped down the interior. Eddie’s always been comfortable here, despite his loud protests, but tonight he enters with ease, a proud smile in place when Richie slides in the driver’s seat. 

“You cleaned.” 

Richie nods, closing the driver’s door beside him. “Mhmm.”

Eddie sniffs. “You’re using the air freshener I got you.”

Richie glances at the rear-view mirror. Eddie’s passive aggressive gift is indeed hanging there, aptly titled _Summer Breeze._ “That I am,” he says, easing the truck in reverse. The gearshift squeaks, a staple of Richie’s pride and joy. 

“You’re wearing cologne.”

Richie doesn’t bother looking. His right hand is draped over the headrest, dangerously close to Eddie’s shoulder. “You going to point out the obvious all night, or…?”

Eddie buckles his seatbelt. Richie hasn’t glanced his way, but he can feel the self-satisfaction Eddie is emanating from here. “I’m just saying.”

“Saying _what?"_ Richie chuckles a little, half-delirious. The truck maneuvers into drive. Richie peels his hand away from the passenger headrest, before Eddie yells at him about incorrect hand placement on the wheel.

Eddie settles back in his seat, back ram-rod straight. “You made an effort,” he says, with a cute little shake of his cute little head. 

Richie half-laughs, half-chokes on air. With substantial effort, Richie throws back a joke. “‘Course I did, Kaspbrak; you’re my main squeeze.”

It’s the same fucking joke Richie made at the start of the schoolyear when they were fourteen, but the meaning is entirely different now, and possibly a little bit closer to the truth. Eddie looks over at him, and Richie promptly flushes himself into oblivion, grateful for the distraction of driving. Grateful to have something to do with his hands. 

“It is,” Richie hears himself saying into the silence between seats, alarmed at the sincerity of his own voice. “For you.”

He can’t look at Eddie. He can’t dare to read whatever expression is forming on that innocent, delicate face. He can’t bare to see the surprise crossing his features, a little knot on his forehead. 

He just can’t. 

Thank god he doesn’t have to. “Thanks, Rich,” Eddie whispers. 

Richie manages a half-look. He glances Eddie’s way and can barely parse the outline of him, small and fucking delicate, past the bulking frame of his own glasses. Richie clears his throat and glances back at the roadway. “Yeah.”

They ride in silence for awhile, but the atmosphere has shifted from something familiar to something charged. It’s a little like the culmination of everything Richie has come to fear bearing down on him all at once, and he suspects Eddie can feel it, too: the darkness, the secrets, the unspoken _something_ hovering just out of reach. The werewolf, the tauntings, the whispers. _Don’t touch other boys, Richie._

Richie closes his eyes, just for a second. They’re almost there. They’ve almost made it. Just a little bit further… 

“Where are we going?” Eddie’s voice is quiet, as though he might break the magic of this little trip if he spooks Richie into running away. He doesn’t even look at Richie as he says it, instead glancing out the passenger door at the fields near Mike’s house like he knows Richie needs the reprieve from his gaze. They’ve cleared the city center of Derry to the point where they’re on the outer ridge of town, which is just private enough to give a modicum of seclusion along with a great view. To top if all off with a nice little bow is the surprising occurrence of it being a nice night: a little chilly, but low wind, and little cloud cover. Richie couldn’t have asked for anything better. The stars have aligned, you might say. 

Richie breathes in deep. Inhale, exhale. He taps a slow beat with his thumb. “Not much further. There’s a little something I’ve always wanted to try.”

Eddie turns. “Please tell me we’re not jumping in a fucking lake.”

Richie laughs, a surprised wheeze bursting out of him. It sounds a little like relief. “ _Fuck_ no. I wouldn’t do that to you.” Richie pauses, considering. “Without offering a little warning first.”

“Uh-huh.” Richie doesn’t have to look to know Eddie is smiling, mouth quirking at at the corners. 

Richie grins, but doesn’t look. 

Eddie is afraid of the dark, so it’s easy to make any number of excuses. Why Richie pulls over a street and a half earlier than planned, because his hands are shaking and he’s nervous, but hell if he’ll let it show. Why he invites Eddie over with a wave of his arm so they both can crawl out the driver’s side when there’s no real reason for it; his passenger door works fine. Why he offers his hand, so Eddie doesn’t have to jump down to the ground. Why he refuses to let go, when Eddie grips his fingers and holds on tight. 

It’s a little fiction, perhaps. But that doesn’t mean it’s make-believe. 

Richie lowers the truck bed, lays a blanket over the metal so their asses won’t freeze. Hops over the edge, ignores the sound of his trusty rust bucket squeaking in the dark. “C’mon, Eds,” he whispers, like he has a hundred times before, but it’s different here. Different now. It’s no longer an egging on; it’s honest truth. Richie wants Eddie to sit with him. And Eddie wants to be with Richie. 

Eddie is a half a head shorter than Richie, so the excuses continue. Richie offers an arm, and Eddie nearly plops right on Richie’s lap in his attempt to find appropriate seating. Richie doesn’t know whether to laugh at the absurdity or encourage the obvious attempt at proximity. It feels like either might elicit a negative reaction, and for once, Richie doesn’t want to make light of a serious moment. Because that’s what this is, Richie realizes, _serious,_ and goddamn Eddie Kaspbrak had it all figured out, configured and analyzed and stitched together, before Rich Tozier had a single fucking clue. 

“So,” Eddie breaks the silence, lightly kicking Richie’s ankle. “What are we doing here?”

Richie sways his legs, trapping Eddie’s feet. He leans back on his hands, torso stretched to show off his height. “What do you mean? We’re stargazing, Eds.” He rolls his eyes toward the sky. “ _Obviously._ ”

Eddie returns the eye roll, grinning. “ _Oh,_ my mistake.”

Richie pinches under his ribs, which sends Eddie careening off to the side. In retaliation, Eddie traps Richie’s wandering fingers in a Houdini-esque vice, which never fails to impress. Richie is squirmy, but Eddie is _sharp._ After a few seconds of fumbling their fingers fall together, whereupon Richie lazily enacts a game of thumb war with Eddie’s forefinger. He’s just gotten Eddie pinned when Eddie asks, “This where you bring all the girls?” in a low murmur. 

“And boys,” Richie replies without missing a beat. When Eddie looks up Richie waggles his eyebrows. 

Eddie laughs, but doesn’t let go. “Just notches on your bedpost, huh? What are we up to, anyway? Twelve, thirteen?”

Richie leans back again. “Depends. Are we counting your mother?”

Eddie fucking _pounces,_ like the word itself is a trigger that commences all out war with Richie’s ribs. “You fucking Trashmouth, I’ll show you—”

“Yeah?” Richie fucking cackles, not even caring that his breath is labored, fucking _already,_ curse his bony body for being so goddamn ticklish. It’s not like just anyone can tickle him, either, it’s just fucking Eddie, who has magical fingers hardwired to Richie’s every nerve. He’s the only one with any real power over Richie, who is a self-proclaimed independent man. Which is dangerous news, really, except if there’s anyone on earth Richie would trust that exquisite power to, it would be Eddie, no question. 

“ _Fuck,_ okay, uncle,” Richie cries, and Eddie eases up. He’s half on top of Richie, half off the blanket, eyes wild, hair askew. Richie doesn’t know why Eddie looks so wrecked when he’s the agent of this chaos, but hell, it’s not like Richie minds the view. 

“You done talking about my mom, asshole?” Eddie looks half-constipated, half-adorable, which, with Richie’s own special brand of math measures out to total cuteness status. Richie’s never questioned his own rules or systems of establishment; why would he? He has the _best_ taste. 

“Yeah,” Richie says, a little breathless. His heart hasn’t quite slowed down: too intoxicated by Eddie’s proximity and the usual degree of their roughhousing. 

But Eddie still doesn’t move. “You brush your teeth before you came over?”

Time fucking...stops. Richie is pretty sure he skips a breath. Maybe two, possibly even three. It’s a fucking ridiculous question, prompted out of literal fucking nowhere, but the insinuation, while foggy and hidden beneath three separate layers of _possibility,_ are still fucking there, bright and twinkling. 

Eddie’s fingers brush over Richie’s wrist; Richie shivers. He’s still pinned down, still staring up at Eddie, haloed by Derry’s night sky, with faint stars shining behind the dark of his hair. Richie thanks every single constellation in existence he made all the right calls tonight, hygiene fucking included. 

“Yeah,” Richie whispers. 

“Good,” Eddie says, looking over Richie’s face in one smooth motion, but mostly he sounds like he’s talking to himself when he says, “good,” one more time under his breath. 

And then he fucking leans in. 

There’s a sharp inhale between them; Richie isn’t sure if it comes out of his mouth or Eddie’s. Nothing seems to matter except the residual heat Richie can feel from Eddie’s face hovering just out of orbit—close, but not quite close _enough._ Eddie stops just shy of actually sealing the deal, and by _deal_ Richie means his goddamn _lips,_ which is a damn shame, but if there’s one thing Richie knows about Eddie fucking Kaspbrak, it’s that he needs to make up his own mind about these things. 

What Richie doesn’t expect is for Eddie to fucking inspect Richie’s entire goddamn face, then raise a curious eyebrow. “Well?” he asks. 

Richie can hardly believe his ears. “Well, what?” he hiss-whispers, because it’s dark and there’s a _mood_ to these things. 

“You gonna kiss me, or what?”

Richie sits up a little in exasperation, which has the added benefit of swaying him even closer to Eddie’s impatient face. “I was waiting on you, dude.”

“Me— _you_ are the one who knows more about sucking face!” Eddie jabs a finger into Richie’s shoulder, which sways him back out of orbit again. 

Richie rolls his eyes so hard he ends up laying completely parallel to the truck bed. “Don’t say ‘sucking face’; we’re not in fifth grade.” He can’t even tell if he’s still in the mood, or if genuine frustration has killed the moment before it could even begin. 

“Oh, _I’m sorry,_ I thought you would take control of the situation, like you always do!” Eddie’s arms flail around. There’s a general art form there Richie has never called outward attention to, though the overall idea is pretty straightforward: the wider the arc of Eddie’s arms, the larger his temper. 

Richie pinches the bridge of his nose and closes his eyes. How did this get so derailed? What the actual fuck? “Jesus _Christ.”_

“I suppose you’re going to make some inane comment about my mother in three seconds.” There’s a shuffling of metal and blanket as Eddie lays out next to Richie so only their elbows are touching. “Go ahead, fire away.”

Richie sighs. “I already fucking told you I wasn’t going to.” Somehow the assumption of Richie’s word is more bothersome than the _almost_ moment. “Bug off.”

Eddie seems to know Richie is serious about it, which is a small blessing. The truck is swallowed in awkward silence, but Richie is feeling just petty enough not to break it. So they sit and listen to crickets chirping and cicadas singing, looking anywhere but each other, knocking elbows when the other so much as breathes. 

After the silent fuming is out of the way, the view is actually pretty nice. Richie did genuinely bring Eddie out the middle of bumfuck nowhere to look at the stars, so it seems fitting they do exactly that. The residual annoyance ekes out of Richie in the form of a long sigh; he tucks one arm behind his head and settles in, feeling himself unwind. 

Eddie’s bony elbow is a constant fixture at his right. “Hey, Richie?”

Richie keeps gazing at the stars. “Yeah, Eds?”

When that warrants no response, Richie turns to face him. Eddie’s face is scrunched up again like he is about to do something mildly distasteful, like fucking apologize. Richie opens his mouth to tell him it’s fine, no worries, Richie is nothing like Sonia fucking Kaspbrak, who makes Eddie apologize for any mild disagreement, but Eddie silences the half-formed thought by reaching a hand out and lightly touching Richie’s cheek. Eddie’s eyes shift in slow motion: from concern to determination the longer he stares at Richie’s face, the longer he traces Richie’s jaw. Like his mind is fucking made up. Like he’s just fought an internal war with himself and won. Richie’s mind is still playing catch up on what the fuck that even means when Eddie leans in and kisses him. 

He always was the brave one. 

Richie’s brain is still not operating at full capacity, but his body is on board with this program, the hand that wasn’t behind his head reaching out to grip Eddie’s shoulder in a loose hold. Can’t cling too tightly, Richie thinks, lest he spook Eddie from ever wanting to participate in this kind of _dialogue_ ever again. 

Eddie leans back after precisely one kiss, but his eyes are still closed. He looks a little dazed and a lot like he’s not thinking properly, which is fucking _fantastic,_ and a definite mark of pride in Richie’s book. 

Then Eddie’s eyes fly open, wide and so beautifully fucking brown, to stare at Richie again. He’s panting a little, chest working like Richie’s taken his goddamn breath away, and isn’t _that_ a delightful little treat. Richie just watches, a little uncertain where Eddie wants this to go, when Eddie just fucking... _leans_ forward again, chin jutting forward obscenely, and presses his lips against Richie’s. Chaste, like it’s permission. 

Richie leans up a little, so he’s resting on one elbow. From this height, he can take Eddie in good and proper, analyze the situation, and respond accordingly. He starts with his hand, reaching out to trace Eddie’s jaw. From there he works his fingers down Eddie’s ear, tucking away an errant piece of hair and gracefully ignoring Eddie’s shiver. His fingers trail down Eddie’s neck to the collar of his sweatshirt, where Richie tugs on the fabric and swings Eddie back into his orbit in one smooth motion. 

“Rich,” Eddie whispers at his mouth, and Richie silences him with a kiss. 

He’s wanted this, longer than he’d admit, maybe even longer than he realized. Eddie always felt a little like the one treat Richie would never get to touch, let alone taste. He was always too beautiful, too innocent, too pure to even think about. Richie could flirt, he could joke, but he couldn’t expect anything more: not for Trashmouth Tozier, not for someone as dirty as him. Richie doesn’t know when he started believing his own fucking stereotype, but somewhere along the way he started believing affection was never really in the cards for someone like him. A temporary fling, a rough and tumble in the sheets, but love? Love was for other people, _normal_ people. The closest Richie would ever get to that cataclysmic kind of love was the Loser’s, and they were more family than fling. 

Besides, Richie told himself, Eddie was far too entranced in his germs and his hygiene and his pharmaceutical products to bother thinking about his libido, let alone someone else’s. 

_Boy,_ is Richie glad to be wrong. 

Eddie is a little sloppy with the practical mechanics of making out, which is fucking _wonderful_ in its own right _._ It means Richie can cradle his hand behind Eddie’s neck, steer his head this way and that to get the angle just fucking right. It means Richie can take this slow, savor it, for as long as Eddie will have him. Eddie is a quick learner, of course, so it doesn’t take him long to find a rhythm for their mouths and their hands, hungry and eager, and from there it’s fucking _fireworks._

“I always wanted to try that,” Eddie whispers, eyes half-closed in pleasure.

Richie is wholly impressed he doesn’t faint on the spot. Thank whatever god is listening they’re already laying down. 

“And?” Richie is only half paying attention to the conversation, too busy kissing a line down Eddie’s jaw. His skin is so fucking warm, it’s fucking entrancing. Eddie hisses and whines so beautifully, but more than that, he’s finally not talking about hickeys or bruises or Sonia fucking Kaspbrak. Not a single word about the world outside their little bubble, no one left in the world but them. 

Richie smiles and nips at Eddie’s neck. He wanders his way back up, nudging Eddie’s nose: back, then forth, then back again. 

Back on more familiar ground, Richie half expects Eddie to spew some of their usual nonsense, like: _about time you get with the program, dickhead._ Or: _as good as being with your mom,_ complete with an Eddie-approved eye roll. But Eddie doesn’t do any of that, because Eddie Kaspbrak is a force of nature, put here on God’s green earth to personally fuck with every one of Richie Tozier’s expectations. Richie should have a handle on Eddie’s surprises by now, they know each other better than fucking anyone, and yet...

Eddie reaches a hand up, fingers tracing Richie’s cheek. He removes Richie’s glasses, but carefully, like they’re something precious and not the third pair he’s owned his year. Eddie places them on the side of the truck bed, where they won’t be lost or broken, and then he’s back: back in Richie’s orbit, back with his fingers on Richie’s face, inspecting the skin there like Richie is something precious, too. 

His fingers carve a nuanced trail along Richie’s brow, his nose, his lips. The space between cheek and mouth where Richie will get laugh lines in a few years. The spot at the base of his chin where he’s had to start shaving, some whiskers growing in. The creases near his eyes that no one gets to see, the lines that only appear when Richie finds something _really_ funny, and even then it remains a secret, hidden beneath his frames. 

Eddie inspects inch after inch after inch, and Richie lets him because it’s unfathomable, maybe, that someone should really notice. Really _care_ in a way that warrants microscopic detail. Richie is accustomed to eyes on him, but he isn’t accustomed to this rare detail; this precious moment, threaded together by Eddie’s eyes, Eddie’s fingers, Eddie’s hands. 

It makes Richie want to say _thank you._ Eddie’s eyes flick back to Richie’s, and Richie thinks he knows, with that goddamn sense of his, every last word Richie doesn’t say. 

It doesn’t matter either way. Because when Eddie wraps his arms behind Richie’s neck, when he crashes and burns in Richie’s personal orbit, his kiss is sweet. And with it, he says a thousand words. 

* * *

They stay there for...a while. 

They trade chaste kisses back and forth, sloppy and giggly like a pair of morons for a good five to ten minutes, until Eddie plants both hands on Richie’s face and kisses him something fierce, whole body shaking like God is on his heels. Richie isn’t sure God is involved in this equation of limbs and body heat, and even if he is, Richie isn’t sure they’re making room for him the way Stan’s dad always says they should. 

But, come on. Fuck that shit.

Eddie is coming alive in Richie’s hands, vibrant in a way he’s never been, practically shaking with energy. It’s fucking delirious, fucking _delightful,_ and damn if Richie is in love with the results. Better than rebellion, better than flirting. It’s fucking glorious, it’s electric, and it can’t be described in words. 

Which serves Richie just fine, actually, because there aren’t any words that need to be said. Eddie makes a half-hearted attempt at whispering some variation of Richie’s name, maybe a rare instruction or two, but it mostly devolves into a breathless repetition of “ _Richie—Rich—”_ that becomes more and more desperate when Richie pins Eddie down, blanket long forgotten, and carves his initials into Eddie’s lips. A brand there, like a seal. _Richie Tozier has been here._

Richie pulls away. An audible slick of spit connects them, fucking obscene. 

Richie fucking _loves_ it. He grins down at Eddie, rubbing their noses together.

“You’re so fucking gross,” Eddie says, panting, but he’s smiling, too. 

“If I’m so fucking gross, why are you _sucking face_ with me?” Richie leans down, kissing Eddie’s neck again just to feel him shiver. 

Eddie squirms, but Richie doesn’t think he’s trying to get away. It’s more like a vague shimmy, an ignorance of just how to scratch the itch burning beneath his skin. “Thought we weren’t calling it that anymore,” Eddie says with a sigh. 

God, he sounds fucking high. “We can call it anything you want, sweetheart,” Richie replies without really thinking, too distracted by the salt of Eddie’s skin. All that talk of medications, and it turns out Eddie is the real addiction. 

“What would you call it?” Eddie whispers, sounding half-excited, half-afraid. He tilts his head further back, so Richie can lick and nibble with easier accessibility. He’s so fucking _eager,_ Richie can’t help but lean back in, desperate to kiss him again. 

“Hmm, whatever you want,” Richie whispers against Eddie’s skin, memorizing every new territory he uncovers. Eddie’s eyes flutter shut, his fingers buried in Richie’s hair. He looks blissed out, and Richie’s never seen anyone look so fucking content courtesy of some heavy kissing. 

Richie circles back around so he’s poised above Eddie, hovering. 

“That’s nice.” Eddie grins dopily, looking more pleased and sated than Richie’s ever seen him. 

Richie can’t help it; he laughs. “Glad you’re enjoying yourself.” He runs his thumb over Eddie’s pretty cheekbones, feeling fond. 

Eddie blinks a few times, visibly bringing himself back to the present. “What time is it?” he asks, rubbing his eyes. He looks like a cat, all spread out and satiated. 

Richie squints at his wrist. It takes a few blinks for him to read the time without his glasses. “Uh...12:15?”

Eddie leaps forward, nearly colliding with Richie on the way up. Richie barely dodges an elbow to the face, which is noteworthy considering Richie can’t see for shit. 

“I have to— _shit,_ I’m so sorry—I have to get home. My mom, she checks on me sometimes, ever since, well.” Eddie pauses with the blanket half-covering his body like a shield. “You know. Anyway, she doesn’t look every night, but if she does…”

“Eds.” Richie climbs off the truck bed so they’re standing face to face. He puts his hands on Eddie’s shoulders until they stop vibrating. A different kind of energy surrounds him now, nervous and suffocating. “Breathe.”

Eddie visibly inhales. Richie raises an eyebrow. “Exhale,” he says. 

Eddie breathes out. Richie smiles. “There you go.” He slings an arm around Eddie’s shoulder, shutting the truck bed with one hand and escorting Eddie to the passenger door with the other. “Now, let’s get you home.”

Eddie gets in, looking down at his hands. “Thanks, Rich.”

Richie winks. “No problem.”

The ride home is quiet, but not stiff. Richie fiddles with the radio, finds some old 60’s station, which keeps them occupied the eight-minute drive back to Eddie’s home. Richie parks a half a block away, as usual, and waits for Eddie to scramble away in a huff, as per always. 

But tonight was always a different kind of night, start to fucking finish.

“Oh, shit,” Eddie breathes, going rigid in his seat.

“What is it?” Richie peers out the windshield and sees it immediately: Eddie’s bedroom light is on. 

“ _Shit.”_

Just then, Richie redacts his earlier claim. Eddie doesn’t sound scared. Richie knows what fear looks like on Eddie Kaspbrak, knows the exact shade of terror that colors his cheekbones. This isn’t fear, or at least, not only. It’s fucking _sorrow_ and somehow that’s fucking worse. 

So much fucking worse. 

Richie knows, with precise and distinct clarity, whatever this magical bubble was, it’s over. Maybe just for tonight, but more than likely, for forever. Eddie’s little tirade of rebellion has finally been called out into the light, and this is the exact moment it gets snuffed back out. 

This isn’t a battle Richie can fight, let alone win. 

Eddie fiddles with the door handle. Half-open, half-shut, but the overhead light still turns on. Richie squints at the sudden flood of white, despite staring at the same terrible shade across the street and one story up, in a bedroom that might as well be a jail cell. 

Eddie hesitates on the threshold of freedom. He looks back at Richie, and Richie won’t admit it, he would bet on his life it was a trick of the light, but he swears he sees tears. 

“Thanks, Rich,” Eddie whispers again, except this time his voice breaks on the final syllable. He looks at Richie one more time, bittersweet, and Richie knows he means goodbye. 

The car door screams on its way shut. Eddie walks across the street, into his own home, head down, hands in his pockets, calm as you fucking please, until he’s all but disappeared from Richie’s life. Richie watches a light turn on, then another, and another, and he can almost imagine Sonia’s precise pitch of anger and affection from here, as smarmy and overbearing as her perfume.

Richie wants to pull his hair out. He wants to fucking scream. He wants to charge across the street, straight into the familiar two-story home, and tell Sonia Kaspbrak what for. He wants to, but he knows he fucking can’t, because Eddie is the one good thing Richie never got to keep. It was never _his,_ because nothing ever is, nothing _ever is,_ including, but not limited to, Eddie Kaspbrak himself. 

Richie can feel the emotion welling in his gut, threatening to tear him apart from the inside out. He can feel the terror behind his frames, threatening to overflow. He can _feel,_ and that, more than anything, is what makes the decision for him. 

He shifts the car into drive with shaking hands. He peels away from the scene of the crime. Because he can’t watch the fallout of Eddie’s beautiful, awe-inspiring bravery fall short. He can’t watch it fall apart, can’t watch it burn. It’s selfish, maybe, or maybe it’s fear. Call it what you want, but somewhere on the backward streets of Derry, Richie learned the truth. 

He has never been brave. It was all a joke, just like everything else. 

Just like he always will be. 

* * *

It goes like this: Eddie disappears for a few days, but it’s summer vacation and Eddie is sometimes locked away for days at a time with no word, in or out. Nobody thinks much of it except Richie, pondering the potential meaning for days on end until the end of the first week when the other Loser’s ask him where Eddie is, why he hasn’t been around lately, and Richie freezes, stuck in a dark well in a darker house, a voice with a very personal, very real paranoia calling his name. Then Ben reports seeing Sonia at the pharmacy, a timid Eddie at her side, reporting that Eddie is _unwell,_ that they’re on their way out of town to see a _specialist,_ that they’ll be gone for a few days, maybe even a few weeks, and that is the end of that. 

Then the last week of summer vacation the Kaspbraks return to Derry, and Richie doesn’t hear from Eddie then, either. 

* * *

SEVENTEEN |

Weeks pass. 

Richie tries, for awhile, to get Eddie to talk to him. To hang out with him. But the calls go unanswered, the curtains remained closed and the window locked. Even someone as obvious as Richie can take a hint, and take it he does. Takes it and runs right back where he belongs: alone, and a loner. 

It’s been awhile, though, since he’s truly gone solo. Richie met Bill when he was eight, ran into Eddie not long after, Mike joining after a year or two. Richie has more memories with the Losers than he does elementary school, and it’s not something he wants to fade away into nonexistence. Memory fades eventually, everything fucking crumbles into dust, but Richie has never liked to think much about the inevitable fallout. He knows, better than most, how empty and bitter the world really is, so it’s easier, perhaps, to swallow the bitter pill Eddie just handed him.

Everything—everyone—drifts apart. 

Slowly, carefully. Even the memory of the fucking clown is less pervasive, even if Richie knows they all have nightmares. It was a once in a lifetime experience, but even that memory has drifted to something less prevalent, less bold than the fluorescent lights of the lunchroom, or the dimmer lights of the library. It was easy at the time, to have each other’s backs, to live in each other’s scars, but when a cold dose of reality sets in, normalcy rushing in, boring and monotonous, it’s harder to admit just how important, just how desperate they are for each other. Just how lonely. 

Richie knows. He understands. 

And he gets it, in his way. Not the reason, necessarily, but the aftereffect. It’s why he appears so chill to the rest of the gang, why he makes excuses to reverse himself out of an awkward situation. No one expects Richie to tackle any sort of sticky situation with grace, which is half the reason he does it: just to fuck with everyone’s predisposed stereotype of him, and make his true motive that much more obvious to one friend in particular. 

Because the thing is, while Richie has been living in solitary for years, Eddie has been living in prison. If anyone deserves time with a surrogate family, it’s Eddie, not Richie. Richie may not be swarming with familial affection, but he gets by. He has other, looser versions of friends. If Eddie wants to cut ties, no matter how shitty the reason, no matter if Richie ever _hears_ the reason, Richie can respect that in the best way he knows how. 

By fucking off. 

They don’t share many classes together, so it’s no hardship to avoid Eddie in the hallways. Eddie can rarely frequent the cinema, and he doesn’t visit the arcade. Richie catches a glimpse of Eddie’s small head at the pharmacy one Saturday afternoon, Sonia in fucking tow, but it’s not like Richie would’ve said hi anyway, not with the devil incarnate present. 

He considers waving, though. In the few seconds between heartbeats, pulse rabbiting in his ears, Richie hesitates a fraction too long. That’s all the time it takes to catch Eddie’s eye— _goddamn it, Richie—_ and that’s it, the gig is up. Weeks of carefully laid plans laid to waste in the span of three fucking heartbeats _._ Their eyes lock, Eddie’s eyes widening, and that, of all things, is what breaks Richie’s remaining emotional stability clean in two. 

Not the shock. Not the surprise. The fucking _fear._

They defeated a clown together, once. They faced death itself. And now Eddie Kaspbrak would rather look anywhere else than Richie Tozier’s fucking _face._

Richie isn’t used to being loved past the initial fun-loving persona. He’s bright and he’s distracting and he’s fun; he’s charming when he wants and ridiculous when he pleases and impervious to words every other day of the week. He’s allergic to awkward and wears shame like it’s his middle name. But somewhere along the way the Loser’s broke down his renowned composure, wormed their way into his soul and made themselves a home. It’s just too bad Richie didn’t realize until it was too late. It’s too bad he didn’t _know_ until he had to give it all up for the one person who held the most square footage in that tiny house. It’s ironic, almost laughable, that the space was reserved solely for Eddie Kaspbrak, germophobe extraordinaire, who could barely set foot in Richie’s home to begin with. 

He did, though. Even if it was just for a moment, one night, he still cracked the window. They both did. 

Richie tells himself it’s for the best. He tells himself he needs to cut his losses and move on. He tells himself it’s better to walk away and he does it well besides. He’s proven right when Eddie doesn’t call out his name, doesn’t follow. 

Richie crosses the street to the ice cream parlor, footsteps carrying him there before his mind has followed up with the decision. He still isn’t thinking when the bell rings above his head, signaling his arrival. The waiter snaps to attention, then peers around Richie’s shoulder at the door. He’s clearly waiting for another boy to follow on Richie’s heels, and Richie winces at the inevitable question. “Where’s your friend?” 

“Couldn’t make it today,” Richie mumbles, slapping some bills on the counter. 

“Too bad,” the waiter sighs, like he knows Richie’s strife. “You two have been coming here for years now; ice cream alone is just no good.”

 _No good._ “Ain’t that the fucking truth.” Richie nods. “Keep the change.”

He has extra cash today anyway. Might as well make someone’s day, even if it can’t be Eddie’s. 

Richie sits alone in the stupid fucking town square, stares at the stupid fucking Bunyan statue, licks at his mediocre ice cream and ponders his mediocre life in this mediocre town. He misses Eddie like he’d miss a limb, the sheer pain of such a loss unquantifiable until it happens, until it breaks, clean in fucking two. 

This is why comedy isn’t a one-man show, Richie thinks. This is why jokes are meant to be shared. Because alone with your thoughts, there’s no one to laugh at but yourself, an audience of fucking one. 

The cone drips down Richie’s fingers before falling to the ground in an audible _plop._ For a moment it’s not vanilla, but blood, pouring from the palm of his hand. For a moment a phantom of Bill Denbrough is standing there in front of him, offering a grimace of a smile. _You’re brave, Richie,_ he said that day, before taking Richie’s palm and slicing down the middle. 

Richie blinks and the image is gone, replaced with stark reality: vanilla ice cream pooling in the grass, its potential wasted. _Ice cream alone is no good,_ Richie repeats, stuck staring at the ground. No, that’s not quite right, but it’s close enough. 

A _Loser_ alone is no good. 

* * *

It’s a rough night. 

Richie doesn’t have the best habits on good days, so it goes without saying that he has awful ones on bad days. After visiting town square he flitted about for awhile—a park bench here, a transit bus there—before landing back at the scrap yard. It’s only beginning to dawn on Richie that he ventures here when he’s at his most vulnerable, most alone, and that’s a train of thought he just can’t go down, not without being neck deep in some sort of vice. For the moment, he’s chosen two, just to get a head start: a cigarette in one hand, a bottle of bourbon in the other, fully intent on drinking himself into oblivion. He had considered crashing an upperclassman’s party, had an invite and everything, but eventually logic won out: Richie doesn’t feel like putting on a persona today. He’s too far gone already.

 _Bad days,_ Richie chuckles at himself, wry. _More like bad weeks._

“You alright up there?” beckons a feminine voice from below. 

Richie would recognize the sound of her smiling voice even if he lost his eyesight altogether. “Beverly Marsh, as I live and breathe,” Richie calls back, mood elevated, even if for a moment. 

Beverly just smiles, sweet angel that she is. The orange glow of her cigarette matches the sun; she always was the pretty one. “How the hell did you get up there, anyway?”

Richie looks away, takes another drag. “Secrets of the trade, Bevy baby; a man’s got to keep his secrets.”

It’s silent for a minute or two. The next time Richie thinks to look down Beverly is already halfway to him, climbing the scrap heap like some kind of insane spider monkey. Even Richie doesn’t make it look that easy, and he traverses this part of town at least once a week. 

“Jesus,” Richie mutters, jamming the nicotine in his mouth, “is persistence your middle name?” Richie offers a hand to help her the rest of the way up. 

“I think that honor belongs to you, actually.” Beverly accepts the show of help. “Thanks.”

“Didn’t think anyone knew to find me here,” Richie says, sidestepping one issue in favor of another. _How the hell did you find me here?_

“Eddie told me,” Beverly replies, perching herself beside him with a grace Richie invariably lacks. Everything Beverly does is easy. Smiling, chatting, smoking. Everything looks picturesque and perfect when she’s around, despite the fire in her hair and in her heart. Not like Richie, who is rusty and jagged and overused, not unlike the garbage at his feet. 

If there’s one thing about Beverly though, it’s that she’s subtle. She knows how to read a room. Just like she knows not to look Richie in the eye when she steals the bourbon from his hand, swallowing a taste. “You wanna talk about it?”

Richie scoffs before his better judgment can hold the impulse at bay. “Thanks but no thanks, Bevy baby. Give me back my drink,” he tacks on, jostling her shoulder. 

Beverly pulls her best offended face, eyelashes fluttering. “Richie Tozier not wanting to talk? That’s a first.”

Richie gives her a deadpan look. “You know that shit only works on the B’s of our group.” At her blank stare, Richie rolls his eyes. “Don’t play coy. Ben, Bill? Those ring a bell?”

Beverly laughs, delighted. “It works on more than just Ben and Bill, Richie.”

Richie smirks. He tips the drink, an acknowledgment. “Part of your charm, Bevy.”

Beverly elbows him in the ribs. “Stop changing the subject, you hooligan. I’m your friend, too. I want to know what’s going on with you.”

Richie shrugs. “Ask Eddie; he sounds particularly _chatty.”_ He swallows a bitter aftertaste. 

“I don’t want to talk to Eddie.”

She sounds honest, is the thing. Resolute. Richie is always second-rate: from his Goodwill shoes to his sloppy hair to his shitty jokes. Richie may be the loudest person in the room, he may be the center of attention, but that doesn’t mean his so-called infamy actually counts for anything substantive. It doesn’t mean anyone wants him around past the last line of a funny joke, past the time it takes a party trick to shine: a brief eclipse of happiness before the darkness sets back in. Before the Losers, no one really looked twice, and after them, no one else really compared. 

Absurdly, Richie feels like hugging her. Or crying. Neither seems like a feasible solution, so instead he shoves more bourbon down his tongue, swallows around the lump in his throat, and croaks out a fumbling “thanks,” that he blames entirely on the alcohol. 

Beverly just smiles, not bothering to look at the mess she’s made. Fucking brilliant smartass. She has entirely too many cards up her sleeve, and she fucking knows it. “So.” She steals the drink back. “Out with it, Tozier.”

Richie sighs under the pretense of the drink. He takes off his glasses and stares at the sunset. Maybe if he looks hard enough, his retinas will bleed. This hazy overlook feels more nostalgic than ever, the melancholy of the moment helped along by the alcohol. Richie’s always been an affectionate drinker. _I’m a lover not a fighter,_ he’d always say, which was more true than any of them realized.

Beverly probably knows that already, though. Which makes it a little easier to confess: “I think you already know, Bev.”

The bourbon sloshes in the bottle, but Richie doesn’t look. He can’t. He hears Beverly set the bottle down between them, far enough away there’s a low risk of it falling into the pit of despair beneath their feet. A practical lady, their Beverly Marsh. She leans back on her hands, letting out a breath of air like she’s exhaling Richie’s smoke. “Maybe,” is all she says, which is about five words less than Richie expects. She does that, sometimes. Talks real slow, purposeful, but not for her own sake. Not to give herself time to digest the words, but to give the other person a moment. Time to process, ruminate, respond. 

It’s not a bad tactic. It’s just that sometimes Richie wishes it didn’t have to be there at all. 

“Maybe I just want to hear you say it.”

Richie knows exactly what game she’s playing at. He leans back on one hand so she can see just how hard he’s rolling his eyes. “Does Bill really fall for that shit?”

Beverly just smiles. “Ben doesn’t.”

Richie smirks. He points with his cigarette. “That’s because Ben is a smart, good boy.”

“Yes, he is.” Richie snorts in agreement, retreating back into his own orbit, but Beverly keeps going. “And so are you.”

Richie never does well with outright praise; Beverly, of all people, should know better. “You don’t need to soften me up, Bev. I’ll tell you whatever you want to know.” He inhales another dose of confidence in the form of nicotine, his own personal prescription. 

“I know,” Beverly says, before stealing the cigarette, too. She tries a taste, looking thoughtful. “I just think you could use a little reminding now and again.”

Richie scoffs again. He rustles around in his pockets, searching for a replacement. “Is this some weird reverse psychology bullshit? Want me to air the dirty laundry?”

Beverly swivels in her seat, legs crossing to face Richie head on. “Sure, sounds fun.”

Richie can’t help it; he laughs. Turns in his seat, too, so they’re face to face. Lights a second cigarette, burns the ember the same time Beverly raises hers, a silent toast. _To our futures, may they be forever bright._

The smoke rises above their heads, above the scrapyard, above Derry. Beverly, with her bright eyes and brighter hair. _We’re stronger together,_ she always said, and Richie knew she meant it. Knew she believed it. Beverly faced her fears alone, could have done it without any of them, but she still trusted that innate conviction deep in her heart, forcing them to be brave, too.

 _To hell with it,_ Richie thinks, and looks down at their hands. He rubs a finger along their matching scars, wondering at their future. Wonders why this feels more fragile than standing together on Neibolt Street, more tumultuous than the ground trembling at their feet. 

“Eddie had been...hanging around. Since... _that_ summer.” Richie looks up, but Beverly is just watching, curious and patient, like always. Richie looks back down, closes his palm. “Under the pretense of some...summer experience essay bullshit.” He chuckles, sucks in another hit. “I knew it was bullshit, but I went along with it anyway. You know.” He side-eyes Beverly, who smiles softly. 

Richie shakes his head, exhaling. “It’s _Eddie._ I was just along for the ride. He came up with all this ridiculous shit, almost as ridiculous as _my_ shit, which is saying something.” He trails off, thinking back to the start. The euphoria of Eddie picking time alone with Richie, how Richie never suspected it would last, but he couldn’t help it, couldn’t let go. Not when this was all he was ever going to get, not when he got more of Eddie than he ever thought he could have, more than he ever thought he could keep. 

Beverly reaches out a hand, a gentle brush at Richie’s knee. “And?”

Richie jolts, tapping the ashes off his cigarette. “I don’t know, Bev, I just wanted to have some fun. Keep it going as long as it could last. I knew—I fucking _knew_ better, but…”

Richie inhales, sharp. Sucks in another breath of smoke just to have something to do with himself. Thank God for the creator of nicotine. “We went out one night, same as always. Nothing was exactly _new,_ but there was something...different.” Richie brushes a hand through his hair, scrubs his face. He looks at Beverly, face empathetic, bordering on pity, and something in Richie just...deflates. 

“Do I really have to fucking do this?”

Beverly smiles, but it’s sad. “I think you should.”

“I don’t fucking like it.”

Beverly holds out a hand. “I know, sweetie.”

It’s her right hand, the one with the scar. Richie stares at her otherwise perfect skin, palm outstretched in invitation. She isn’t expecting anything; there’s no request. It’s just a question. Just an answer. 

Richie takes her offer, and her hand. “There was a moment.” Richie shuts his eyes, squeezes. Inhale, exhale. _Breathe._ “There was a moment, everything was fucking perfect, but then we got back and Sonia fucking Kaspbrak found out and Eddie was shipped off. And now he’s fucking back, but he’s not fucking talking, and I don’t know, Bev. I just don’t…”

It hurts. More than he expected. More than he realized. More than he’d admit, _ever,_ to anyone that wasn’t Beverly. He’d deny it in the next breath, swear on his life, his own mother’s grave that his breath didn’t hitch, that he didn’t choke, that he didn’t cry. 

And Beverly knows. She _knows._

But she doesn’t fucking say a word. She just shuffles a little bit closer, her palm replaced with her arms. Open wide, just like always. 

Richie doesn’t think. He just hugs her, and hugs her, and hugs her, until his breath evens out, until the sun fully sets, until the hurt fades away, until all Richie can feel is her special brand of warmth, the kind Ben had seen from the very beginning. 

There’s some sort of magic in her soul, Richie thinks, and he can feel, distantly, that some piece of her enchantment has seeped into his heart, somehow, and it feels a little like a flame, a little like their matching cigarettes, burning Richie from the inside out. 

* * *

Eddie shoulderchecks Richie on his way to fifth period, nonchalant as you fucking please, and whispers “library,” under his breath as he does it. 

The nerve of this kid. 

Richie considers not going. Just for the hell of it, just because he doesn’t like being told what to do. Because he’s been given the cold shoulder for weeks, just for Eddie to up and decide he’d rather bump his shoulder _into_ Richie’s instead of outright ignoring it, on a random fucking Wednesday, on the coldest day so far. Because he’s sick of Sonia’s wet kisses, maybe, or Stan’s bird facts, or Bill’s relentless bravery when it comes to the dull as fuck lunch menu. 

It’s just a guess, but it’s probably a fucking good one. 

In the end, Richie’s curiosity wins out. Because he’s a contrary son of a bitch, and he wants to know what Eddie could possibly say, why he would pick today to drop the act. For weeks Richie has been living it up with Beverly, rarely leaving her side, and it feels a little like they’ve chosen sides in the divorce, sure, except Beverly is an angel and Richie knows Eddie could never hate her. 

Besides, Richie is at least ninety-eight percent sure Beverly and Eddie are still talking, sometimes, and Richie is ninety-five percent sure they talk about him. It’s just a guess. But it’s probably a fucking good one. 

So Richie picks up his heels and saunters toward the library, careful to keep a respectful distance, whistling under his breath as he goes. He’s not going to make this fucking easy, that’s for damn sure. 

Richie has about seven different voices ready, about fifteen different jokes, but Eddie follows the shouldercheck with a swift uppercut. “Why are you doing this to me?”

The library door isn’t even completely shut. Richie’s feet aren’t even all the way in the door. The librarian glares their way with a distasteful scowl, which captures Ben’s dutiful attention, ears perked to Eddie’s familiar brand of screeching that indicates his wrath. 

“Um,” Richie eloquently attempts to display this plethora of information, but Eddie is already aware of the ensuing chaos. Of course he is. He started this shit, meanwhile Richie was left in the dark trying and failing to pick up after the scraps. And piece his life together. And not get punched while he’s at it. 

Eddie is prickly on the best of days. Today he’s a fucking porcupine intertwined with a fucking _bear._

Richie points at Ben, who waves, then the librarian, who glowers. Eddie rolls his eyes and grabs Richie’s outstretched hand, _literally_ grabbing Richie’s hand in a public space where there are _bystanders,_ and drags him down an adjacent hallway, shooting the librarian a whispered, “Sorry,” for the trouble. 

Richie didn’t realize how complacent his Eddie-senses had become. Jesus, it’s only been a few _weeks._

Eddie doesn’t let Richie’s mind wander for long. He’s fucking relentless today, energetic and fierce. He whirls on Richie as soon as they’re in a semblance of privacy, in the non-fiction, autobiographical section where students rarely tread. He jabs a bony finger in Richie’s chest, the most contact they’ve had in weeks, right over Richie’s heart. _Bullseye._

“I know you heard me the first time. But since you appear to be fucking _slow_ today, dickwad, I’ll ask it again: why are you _doing_ this to me?”

Richie is a chill guy. He’s relaxed. He doesn’t freak out. But right here? Right now? He’s feeling a little testy. His back is against the wall, somewhat literally, and he’s being accused of—what—giving Eddie space? Not freaking the fuck out? Acting like nothing happened?

“Fucking _what_ now?” Richie stands at his full height, not caring that his voice carries a little with his tone. 

Eddie shushes him with a hand over his mouth. It stays there for precisely three seconds, whereupon Eddie snatches his hand away like he’s been burned. Richie admirably resists rolling his eyes. It’s just like fucking middle school all over again, except they crossed this bridge a long-ass time ago. As in, when they were fucking _eight._

Or so Richie thought. 

Eddie visibly breathes through his nose in a calming technique. On the second breath, he looks up at Richie with something wild in his eyes.

Richie swallows. Eddie tries again: “Why are you ignoring me?”

Richie can’t help it; he laugh. A giant-ass, delirious laugh that starts from the middle of his ribs and floats on up like his sanity is riding a hot air balloon. Eddie is scrambling forward again and mauling Richie in an attempt to keep him quiet, but Richie just laughs harder at Eddie’s ridiculous consistency for the status-quo. It’s funny, see, because out of all of them, Eddie was the furthest thing from normal from the start. 

“Why am I—oh, Eddie-bear, you are, as always, a fucking treat.” Richie waves Eddie’s fingers away, carefully dodging his elbows. He wipes at his eyes beneath his glasses, his eyes leaking from laughing so hard. “That’s the best joke I’ve heard all week.” 

Eddie crosses his arms. His face has gone red, whether from Richie’s hot-ass body or second-hand embarrassment is harder to discern. Ah, who is Richie kidding, it’s probably the latter. “Wanna tell me what’s so fucking funny, dickwad?” 

Richie lets out one last chuckle that dies on a high-key note. “No, not really, if I’m being honest.”

Eddie glares at him. “Are you _trying_ to be difficult? Oh wait, stupid fucking question.”

Richie crosses his arms, too. He feels like the effect works better when you’re more than half a head taller than your target. Oh, the air feels so clean from up here. “Oh, _I’m_ being difficult. That’s a new one.”

Eddie doesn’t even blink. “No, not fucking really, Richie. You’re difficult literally all the time.”

“Well, I don’t see how that can fucking be true, considering I literally _haven’t been around.”_

Eddie waves with his arms. “Exactly!”

They stare at each other, breathing hard. They’re both glaring, but Eddie’s head looks like it might explode in the next five fucking seconds. Richie doesn’t really want to be responsible for a repeat incident of Beverly’s bathroom, so he says, “You were the one who didn’t reach out to _me,_ asshole,” like the helpful chap he is. 

Despite the insult, Eddie visibly deflates, just a little. The truth has that effect on Eddie, sometimes: he’s either incensed to sated, depending on the day. Or the mood. Or the hour. 

“My mom made me leave town,” he says in a whisper. 

The reminder makes Richie deflate too, just a little. “I know.”

“I didn’t know how to…” Eddie gestures weakly at Richie’s everything. “I didn’t know how to talk to you.”

“Because you’re scared of me,” Richie says, surprising even himself. He hadn’t meant to say it, his fucking trash heap of a mouth running away on him again. It’s been on his mind since Beverly, and it’s the closest he’s touched the truth in days. 

Eddie doesn’t deny it. Doesn’t hide away in his bedroom like Richie has come to expect. He doesn’t cower away, because he’s Eddie fucking Kaspbrak, which is to say: he fucking _seethes._ “Of course I’m fucking _scared_ of you, you fucking moron, because I _like_ you!”

Eddie is trembling with nervous energy, but whether he’s about to murder Richie or fucking kiss him again is impossible to tell. Richie swallows. 

Eddie bites at his lip, picking at the pockets of his jeans. “I thought that was obvious, what with the—” Eddie gestures again, up then down. “Fucking...making out with your fucking f-face.”

His cheeks are still adorably red, his breathing a little shallow. His horrible rendition of stuttering Bill is the last fucking straw: Richie steps foward, taking Eddie’s palm and placing it over his own chest. 

“Breathe,” Richie instructs, voice low. 

Eddie stares at Richie’s _Freese’s_ shirt, concentrating so hard on Richie’s sternum Richie is half-afraid he really will pass out, but he does fucking breathe. In, then out, then in again, three successful breaths. “Good,” Richie whispers, and it takes him back to that night under the stars, Eddie’s mouth a whisper so near his own. “Good.”

Eddie looks up at Richie then, his expression a little earnest, a little nervous, a little like a mirror image of his face back when he was fighting a war and won. A little like he’s thinking of it, too. It’s a beautiful fiction, a reality Richie can’t believe is fully real, but oh, would he love to. Dip his toes in, wade around for awhile. Like a pretty little vacation beach house, complete with an oceanside view. Eddie has always felt a little too fantastical to hold onto, and Richie always presumed that meant he wasn’t Richie’s to hold. But Eddie is here, and he’s holding on, and maybe that means he won’t let go.

Maybe they’ll get it right, this time. 

Time seems to stop, the rest of the world fading away until it’s just Richie and Eddie, standing together in a forgotten hallway. Hands connected, hearts beating as one. It’s a little like the culmination of all their memories combined, as though every moment was leading them here, to this exact fucking spot. Richie can see it now, a scrapbook of precious moments in this shitty-ass town aptly titled: _Richie and Eddie’s Greatest Hits, Volume I._

Eddie’s eyes are just as big and innocent as Richie remembers, but there’s more depth behind it now. More meaning. That’s the thing about memories: they fade, but sometimes they connect beautifully, too. Like stars joining together to become constellations, sometimes they’re better together than they ever were apart. 

Eddie scans the rest of Richie’s face, resting on his nose, just shy of reaching his lips. His fingers tighten on Richie’s shirt, a makeshift embrace. It feels like an invitation, shy and tentative: _I said I like you, dumbass._

Richie brushes his fingers along Eddie’s knuckles. Back and forth, a reassurance to quell his own fucking nerves. _It’s now or never,_ some part of him whispers, and it isn’t one of the voices this time. Richie clears his throat. He closes his eyes. Opens them. Says, “I like you, too,” on an exhale, weak and fucking intimidating. 

Eddie’s eyes widen. The fingers clench tighter on his chest, a vice. “You do?”

Eddie’s tentative elation is too fucking much. Richie smiles down at his own chest. “Yes, dipshit. Why do you think I stuck by your side all day, every day, for fucking years?”

Eddie looks down, scuffing his sneakers against Richie’s boots. “Because we’re friends?”

Richie scoffs. He reaches out his other hand to tilt Eddie’s chin up. Eddie is dark and beautiful in the dim light of the library, surrounded by the smell of books, private and enclosed. He’s all Richie sees, his entire world condensed down into one fucking person. With the big confession out of the way, it’s easier to admit the follow-up: “I’ve been flirting with you for years.”

Eddie rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling. “You flirt with literally _everyone,_ Richie.”

Richie reaches out, grabbing Eddie’s other elbow to reel him in, closer. Touch the fire and you get burned, but Richie’s not afraid of the flame. Not anymore. “Those are just words. Who do I spend the most time with?”

Eddie flushes beautifully. He ducks his head, but doesn’t look away from their hands, intertwined. Their chests, connected. “Me?”

Richie bends a little to catch Eddie’s eye. “You.”

Eddie blushes harder. “I always wanted your attention,” he admits, wrapping his thumb around Richie’s forefinger. A promise there, in their hands. A secret they get to fucking keep. 

“You always had it,” Richie whispers, and it may as well be a declaration of love. Eddie looks up at him, and Richie knows he gets it. 

It still makes Richie want to puke a little from nerves, but Eddie knows when not to press. He knows when Richie is done with words, with showmanship, just like he knows when Richie is serious. 

Eddie’s smile, when it blossoms, is like the first taste of spring. Like the sun after a storm. Like freedom after killing a clown. “I like you,” he says again, like he can’t fucking contain it. Like it’s bursting out of him, this affection for an awkward weirdo in skinny jeans. 

Richie leans down to kiss him, then, because it’s easy, and remarkably sincere, to respond in a way that’s genuine and eager, wanton and willing. Richie doesn’t overthink when Eddie is in his orbit, distracting him with an earnestness that is borderline saccharine, but turning it frisky before any of the sweetness can stick around to form a cavity. Eddie keeps Richie on his toes, keeps him vibrant and alive and honest. Eddie makes affection look easy, makes normal fucking pleasurable, makes the scary not so fucking terrifying.

It’s because he’s brave, yes, but it’s more than that. 

It’s because he makes Richie brave, too. 

* * *

“Wait, wait, wait wait wait.” Richie pushes away slightly, just enough to look Eddie in the eye. “So you _were_ flirting with me? Since we were teenagers?” 

Eddie’s dark eyes have a dazed expression, his chest leaning forward, like a teeter totter tilting in Richie’s general direction. Richie’s lower half is inordinately pleased with this development, but the question still stands. 

“We are teenagers,” Eddie says, blinking. 

Richie rolls his eyes. “You know what I mean. The popcorn, at the theater? The fucking rocket pop?” Richie can hear his voice going shrill, needing the verification he wasn’t going fucking insane all these years. Not now that the knowledge is within reach. 

Eddie does lean forward then, on fucking tiptoe, to whisper in Richie’s ear. “What do you think, dumbass?” he breathes, which isn’t really an answer, but it certainly _feels_ like one in all the ways that count. 

_Is this the Eddie equivalent of dirty talk?_ Damn. Richie might be halfway in love. Or horny. Or both, who can say. 

Eddie’s hands wrap around Richie’s waist, half a hug, half an embrace of another sort. He kisses dangerously close to Richie’s throat, which is strangely erotic in a way Richie isn’t sure is appropriate for this quasi-public venue. “Um,” he replies, feeling drunk and stupid, but Eddie just laughs. 

“I always looked up to you, you know.” He nuzzles Richie’s jaw, his warm breath a beautiful fucking distraction. “You were always my personal hero. They way you would just...stand up to fucking anyone, without a second fucking thought…”

Eddie leans back, but Richie catches him on the way down. He chuckles, a little sardonic. “Oh, I had thoughts, believe me.”

“You know what I mean.” Eddie cups Richie’s cheek. “You were always going to make it big, Rich. I always knew that. You were always going to make it out of this shithole town, and I was always going to be the one who chased you right out.”

It’s...a fucking statement. Richie knows that, can hear it between the lines. More than the admission at hand, this feels like Eddie’s real moment of confession. Maybe because there’s a hint of a future there, a hint of _together or not at all._

Richie looks at Eddie in a new light. “You know,” he says, brushing Eddie’s ear. “I’d prefer if we were together.”

Eddie smiles like they’re in on a private joke. “Side by side?”

Richie can feel the lopsided grin on his lips, making his face look goofy. He doesn’t fucking care. “Side by fucking side.”

“You’re worth it,” Eddie replies, smirking, and it reminds Richie of Beverly. It reminds him of the fire burning in his soul. It reminds Richie of the time he was brimming with magic energy, too afraid of showing the deepest parts of his heart. Too afraid of letting go. 

It takes Richie back to that summer, right after they beat Pennywise. Eddie had broken his arm and been promptly locked away in his own fucking house, leaving Richie alone and lonely. Without Eddie, Richie had a Kaspbrak-shaped whole in his life, fucking aimless and disjointed. More disjointed than Eddie’s fucking arm, which warranted all the puns the world had to offer. Richie had a whole wad of feelings in his chest, bursting at the seams, but when the time finally came, the words dried up in his throat, his courage running woefully, painfully dry. 

He wonders now, as he had back then, whether it is better to play it safe. Wonders whether it would feel better to say _all_ the words, instead of sticking to the jokes. Eddie might not believe him, but at least he would fucking _know._

“I fucking love you,” Richie says in a rush, chest caving in on itself. He feels like he’s just run a marathon, just smoked an entire fucking pack, just chugged a whole can of beer. It’s both euphoric and fucking terrifying, but if there was any one person Richie could pick to share the other half of his heart with, there’s no question who that person would be. 

It was always Eddie fucking Kaspbrak. 

Eddie inhales, eyes going a little wide. He stares at Richie a little too long, so long moisture starts collecting at the corners of his eyes. He looks between Richie’s eyes, back and forth then back again, a little disbelieving. Then he does burst out crying, sobbing almost, but his mouth is smiling. He sounds a little manic, a little delirious, a little like Richie broke him, and Richie hopes to god that’s a good fucking thing. 

“I love you, too,” Eddie says, before swallowing Richie in a bone-crushing hug, arms so tight Richie’s ribs complain, even if his voice doesn’t. 

Richie grins and hugs Eddie back, feeling lightheaded and woozy and warm. It’s funny, Richie thinks, because the magic doesn’t fade away like he expects it to. Once fulfilled, he had assumed the spell would burst, or float off to find a like-minded loser to assist in carrying out its mission of unity, whatever and however that shit works. Instead Richie can feel its heat enveloping the both of them in a safe little bubble, and it’s like every promise they’ve ever made has come to life between them, a little flower blooming in the dirt after the rain. 

* * *

Richie doesn’t know what to expect after that fucking bombshell of a day, just that he’s exhausted and sated and happy, which is a weird fucking feeling. Things packaged this pretty with a little bow on top aren’t just _given_ to Richie—to any of them, really—and it stresses him out just as much as it makes him jump for joy. Which is to say: it commences an evening of chain smoking on his rooftop at 9:00pm on a Thursday. 

Richie keeps himself in check, though: he smokes approximately five cigarettes back to back before his mood levels out and he’s caught drifting thoughtlessly while staring at the sun, practically cauterizing his useless eyeballs into oblivion. It’s the same view he’s seen three separate times now—one with Eddie, one with Beverly, and one by himself—and there’s a message there, a poignant and poetic something, but Richie doesn’t know if he wants to touch the deeper meaning. Life doesn’t seem to care what Richie wants, though, which is just as well. Despite his useless eyeballs, despite his grandstanding, the truth is flimsy and pathetic as always, and it hits Richie on a returning gust of wind. 

He doesn’t want to get burned. 

Afterward Richie wanders the short circumference of his room in a daze, listening to music while trying out some new chords just for want of something to do with his hands. He’s itching for something to _do;_ he debates burning a new CD for Eddie to add to his Richie-sized collection, but chickens out about eight separate times. It’s easier when there’s no label attached, the CD blessedly blank, but a blank slate doesn’t feel right, either. Eddie isn’t _nothing._ So instead Richie’s hands shake in mid-air, Sharpie poised and ready, waiting on words Richie has already said. Three words hanging in the air are one thing; an entire discography written in permanent ink is another. Richie flaunts love like it’s his middle name, but music is its own type of language. Always has been. 

It’s not as though Richie hasn’t made a mixed tape for Eddie before. He’s made him fucking _dozens._ The problem isn’t the result, the problem is realizing... _he’s made dozens of mixed tapes for Eddie before._

“Jesus _Christ,”_ Richie says, startling himself and knocking the chair to the floor. 

Which is when he discovers Eddie Kaspbrak outside his window, exasperated arm movements and all. 

“Jesus Christ,” Richie says again, because his brain has left his body. He unlocks the window on auto-pilot, because this, like everything else Eddie-shaped in Richie’s life, is startlingly normal. 

“ _Finally.”_ Eddie accepts Richie’s helping hand inside, nearly somersaulting on the carpet since Richie is forever leaving random shit on the floor. “It’s fucking freezing out there.”

Richie runs a hand through his hair. He feels...discombobulated. “Yeah, sorry. I was...distracted.”

Eddie also thinks this is fucking normal because he just laughs, sharp and pointed. “Yeah, I noticed. Thinking with your dick, Tozier?”

Which is...startlingly _not_ true. “Um…”

Eddie, who had been giving Richie’s room a rough once-over despite having been in Richie’s room literally hundreds of times, swings around. “Wait. What _were_ you doing?”

Richie blinks. He shoves his hands in his pockets, trying for nonchalant. “Nothing.”

Eddie’s eyes narrow into beady little slits. “Spit it out, Tozier.”

Richie swings his hips in a small little circle. “Really, it’s nothing. Just listening to music.” _Not having an existential crisis about how long I’ve been in love with you and what that means now that we’re...something. Nope, not at all._

Eddie clearly isn’t buying. He crosses the room in three easy strides until he’s standing just beneath Richie’s chin, his breath coming out in cold little gasps like he’d been running to get here. The Richie from before would have filed this information away to use again later, at a time and date of his choosing, but the Richie now is too preoccupied by his own internal crisis, wondering how in the hell Eddie Kaspbrak with his short little legs and his fucking OCD tendencies and his red fucking short shorts is the very specific cause of Richie’s breakdown. 

Half of Richie is surprised by this development. The other half isn’t surprised at all. 

“What’s the matter, cat got your tongue?” Eddie asks, jutting his chin out. Despite being shorter, and smaller, Eddie’s got a surprising amount of confidence, which is...kind of sexy, in its way. Richie can feel himself melting, falling under that familiar Kaspbrak spell and _boy,_ is it a relief. Why are crises somehow just...easier when Eddie is around? What the fuck does that even _mean?_

And then, as if to answer this internal musing—and because Eddie was put on God’s green earth just to personally fuck with every one of Richie’s preconceptions—Eddie reaches a hand around to grip Richie’s ass.

Richie resolutely does not squeak.

But he does jump, just a little, nearly pummeling right into Eddie’s smug face. “ _Jesus,_ take a guy on a fucking date first,” Richie blurts, squirming, but he can’t help but smile. He puts on a good show of resisting, but it’s half-hearted at best, and Eddie fucking knows it. 

“Please, like you haven’t groped me a hundred times over.” Eddie’s hands don’t roam, exactly, but they are certainly _there._ It’s more like they’re mapping very specific terrain and Richie’s ass just so happens to be part of the legend. Richie has some questions, but they’re on the backburner. It’s not for him to judge what gets people going. 

If this is Eddie’s attempt at...getting things going. 

“It wasn’t—” Richie goes for defense, automatic, but falters when Eddie’s hand withdraws from Richie’s back pocket with the Sharpie. 

Eddie raises an eyebrow. “Studying?”

Richie crosses his arms. He isn’t blushing. He’s _not._ “Something like that.”

Fucking hell. 

“Uh-huh.” Eddie looks amused, which is a frustratingly good look on him. His brown eyes are practically gleaming in the dark. “Something I can help you with?”

Oh, Richie does love a good opening line. Eddie knows it, too, if his sweet smile is anything to go by. Richie is now ninety percent sure this is Eddie’s equivalent of flirting. Goddamn, how did Richie get this lucky?

“I would love to let you, babydoll,” Richie says, swinging his feet in a smooth semi-circle and looping an arm around Eddie’s shoulders in the process. Richie leads them in the direction of his desk, shutting the lid of his shitty laptop with a quiet _click._ “But this is something I need to do by myself.”

Eddie peers up at him, his hair tickling Richie’s ear. “When the fuck did you get all mature?”

Richie smirks, but his gaze gets caught on the Sharpie in Eddie’s hand. “I can be an adult sometimes.”

Eddie nuzzles beneath Richie’s chin. “You’re barely high functioning.” 

“But I am functional.” Richie winks. 

Eddie coughs and sputters, which is, admittedly, a delectable sight. Richie laughs, wondering what the hell is happening, why Eddie is really here, when the truth hits, again, like a slap to the face. Not why Eddie is here, precisely, but why Eddie _hasn’t been allowed._

Richie freezes. “Wait. What are _you_ doing here?”

It’s the most serious he’s ever sounded in his entire goddamn life. Eddie looks at Richie like he’s grown a third head, which, is fair. They just took a turn into a very scary reality, and Richie doesn’t like it one bit either, but there are more pressing issues at hand than talk of Eddie’s intentions or Richie’s affections. 

“Are you crazy?” Richie creeps forward, voice lowered as though his parents will give a damn or bother climbing the stairs. In all honesty Richie isn’t thinking of his parents at all, but he _is_ thinking of Sonia fucking Kaspbrak. “Isn’t this—” Richie motions between them, “—the reason you got caught last time?”

Eddie doesn’t stop blushing. He barely even blinks. He still looks a little shell-shocked, a little like Richie has broken his brain when he shrugs one slender shoulder. He’s back to being the picture of innocence, meek and small. “Yeah, but...”

He looks down at his hands, twisting the Sharpie around his fingers. Richie doesn’t so much as breathe until Eddie glances back up. 

Eddie’s goddamn eyes are so fucking big. “What?” Richie asks, a little manic. 

Eddie glances around the room, fidgeting in place. “I wanted to be with you,” he shrugs, like this isn’t common fucking knowledge. “I’m almost eighteen and my mom—” Eddie chokes a little on the words. He clears his throat, glancing between Richie and the Sharpie as though having a little piece of Richie in his palms is all the courage he needs. “She can’t control me anymore,” he manages, a little piece of that Kaspbrak bravado sliding back into place. 

“But if she finds out…” Richie flinches a little just imagining it. 

But Eddie steps forward and takes Richie’s hand. “No, Rich. I’m saying it doesn’t _matter.”_ Something on Richie’s face must show his disdain, because Eddie sighs. “Look, I made a list. Years ago, for that stupid fucking essay. A whole bunch of bullshit was on it, some of it idiotic, but some of it...wasn’t.”

Richie can tell Eddie is trying to tell him something here, but the language is just vague enough to make Richie halt the brakes. “And?” he says, feeling stupid. Everything is moving in slow-motion, his brain drunk and stagnant on words Eddie isn’t quite saying.

Eddie smiles in away that’s half-grimace, half-grin, like he knows this is the part where the band-aid is ripped off. Beneficial, but painful. “And…” he says, picking at Richie’s knuckle. “Today at the library…”

Richie squints in confusion. Eddie blows out a breath. “Goddamn, you’re such an idiot.”

“Wow.” Richie holds up one hand in mock-offense. “You’re really great at this, Kaspbrak.”

But Eddie just snickers. “Not all of us talk all the fucking time.”

Richie straightens his shoulders, shrugging. “Maybe you should talk a little more.”

“And maybe you should talk a little less,” Eddie snaps back. 

Richie waves a hand in an _encore_ motion. “Hmm, yes, keep going, this is working for me.” 

Eddie shoves him in the shoulder. “God, you’re such a jackass.”

Richie just smiles and captures Eddie’s other hand, linking their fingers together. “You gonna tell me something about the library or what?”

Eddie exhales deeply again. Richie is on the verge of asking if he needs to help Eddie implement some breathing techniques when Eddie says, all in a rush: “We were there, and there was something on the fucking list I wanted to do.” And then, tacked on: “But I couldn’t. There.”

It’s Richie’s knee-jerk reaction to say, “Oh.” 

And then, when the other shoe drops, “ _Oh.”_

Eddie closes his eyes. “Yeah.”

Richie squints. “Why didn’t you just say so?”

Eddie fucking _implodes._ He comes at Richie full force, regardless of that fact that they’re _already holding hands,_ so slapping the shit out of Richie is generally pointless, and generally impossible when they’re already connected. It’s so fucking funny Richie’s ribs hurt from laughing so hard. He half-falls, half-collapses on the bed, wondering if it’s possible to suffer an internal injury from laughing so much your guts bleed. 

Eddie would probably know the answer to that. Richie will ask him if he ever gets back to breathing normally again. 

“I can’t believe I had this fucking conversation with you, fucking _bared my soul,_ for you to fucking laugh at me!” Eddie is shrieking between finger-stabbings that have morphed into finger-tickling. 

“I said ‘oh’ first, excuse you,” Richie corrects between brief bouts of breathing. His face is on fucking _fire._ “Okay, uncle—I said _uncle,_ holy shit.” Richie sits up when Eddie gets off him, sputtering a little to get his face back to a semi-normal shade of pale.

“So,” Eddie says, breathing a little heavy. He’s back to staring at his hands, sneaking glances at Richie when he thinks Richie isn’t looking. 

“So,” Richie repeats, picking at the knee of his jeans. He leans back on his hands in open invitation. “You wanna make out?”

Eddie’s face fucking blooms, a sliver of something mischievous tucked in the corner of his smile. “Yeah,” he whispers, a little breathless and really, that’s all the invitation Richie needs. 

* * *

It goes like this: Eddie asks, ridiculously fucking nervous, if he can stay the night. He’s done catering to his mother’s wishes, done catering to fucking _anyone,_ except apparently Richie, because Eddie kisses him so long, and so fucking passionately when Richie replies, “fucking _duh,”_ that Richie is surprised his brain doesn’t explode on the spot. After an evening spent gloriously exploring each other’s mouths, and touching each other’s dicks, Richie watches Eddie sleep, looking so fucking peaceful and so fucking angelic that Richie pinches himself twice, just to be sure this isn’t a _really_ elaborate wet dream. Upon confirming his own reality, Richie makes his way to the roof, smokes one last cigarette, and marvels at the feeling of freedom running through his veins, making him high as a fucking kite. Finally, he feels fearless in a way that feels permanent. Finally, he feels bold in a way that is worthy of the name. Richie reenters his messy bedroom and goes straight for the desk: picks up the chair, takes a fucking seat. Doesn’t hold back, doesn’t think twice. He makes the fucking mixed tape of his dreams, picks his words carefully, poetically, fucking _adoringly,_ and when he’s done, when he presses eject, he finds the discarded Shaprie on the floor and writes the title of their biography, start to fucking finish. It’s perfect, Richie thinks, because it’s not the end. It’s perfect, Richie thinks, because they’re just getting started. 

_Richie & Eddie’s Greatest Hits, Volume I. _

* * *

EIGHTEEN |

They’re three weeks into their final summer in Derry when Eddie comes knocking on Richie’s door. “Richard Tozier the Third!”

Well. Pounding, more like. 

Richie opens the door with his usual persona in place: a lanky lean against a precarious door. He’s put an ounce of effort into his appearance today, in the offhand chance Eddie might show up. It was a long shot, since today was Eddie’s designated _pack day,_ and that meant a fight with Sonia was on the fucking horizon, but Richie’s always been a bit of a dreamer. He’s sporting a baseball tee with ripped jeans, Converse, and sunglasses tucked in his wild curls. He’s decided on letting his hair grow for a bit, because why the fuck not. He’s on his way to college, foot halfway out the door. 

In more ways than one. 

Eddie, meanwhile, has a backpack slung across his shoulders, a suitcase in hand, and a scowl on his face. His eyes visible stutter when they see Richie, dressed borderline normal for once in his fucking life, and _damn_ if Richie doesn’t give himself a mental pat on the back for catching Eddie off guard. His cheshire cat smile is the only indication of his internal glee, which Eddie scowls deeper at, if such a thing is even possible. Eddie makes everything seem possible, which, if that isn’t cause for eternal joy, then what the fuck is? 

Eddie rolls his eyes at Richie’s obvious satisfaction. “You look good,” he says at length. “I never said that before. You always look fucking good, and I fucking hate you.” Eddie heaves a breath, turns halfway on his heels, then adds: “Now come on, dickwad, help me pack my shit.”

As far as invitations go, Richie’s had worse. 

He’s also never had better. 

Richie is off the porch and jumping down the stairs faster than Eddie can blink. He bends to snatch Eddie’s luggage like the gentleman he is. “Where ya headed, sweetheart?” he asks, not missing a beat. 

Eddie’s eyes are a little wide. He looks at Richie like he’s a little insane, or maybe he’s a little in love. It’s hard to tell with Eddie, sometimes. More than likely the truth lies somewhere in the middle, teetering between reality and dreams. 

And that is precisely why Eddie has a Richie Tozier in his life. Because everyone needs someone who can sling an arm around their shoulder, grab their hand, and _run._ Eddie had been waiting to run his entire life and never even knew it. And sure, maybe it took a near-death experience to realize that truth with eyes wide open, but it still happened. They saw the worst life had to offer, what most people would think a terrible fiction, but they came out the other side. _We’re fucking superheroes, Eds,_ Richie said that day, with an elbow to the ribs, and fuck, he’d been exactly right. 

Eddie had looked at him that day a little like he does now. A little like he was about to embark on the most maniacal, most deliberately insane quest of his life, but fuck if he was going to be the first to back down. Fuck if he was going to let Richie Tozier win. Eddie, the fastest-talking, bullshit-ribbing friend Richie had ever known, the only one who could keep up with antics, the only one who could match him stride for stride. 

Always has. Always will. 

“Anywhere,” Eddie says, and promptly drops both backpack and suitcase on the fucking sidewalk. Even Richie winces when the luggage hits bare concrete, but Eddie doesn’t give a flying fuck. He stumbles forward, right into Richie’s chest, breathing in the Tozier special of deodorant and cigarettes. He hugs Richie, arms wound tight around Richie’s ribs. 

Richie hugs him back. His tiny spitfire of a boyfriend, his best friend.

Eddie leans back, brown eyes wide. “I can still come with you, right? You’ll let me?”

Richie smiles, brushing a thumb under Eddie’s eyes, cradling his cheek. “Eddie, my love, you beautiful dipshit—”

Eddie whacks his hand away. “Watch it—”

Richie snatches Eddie’s hand in midair, holds them together, trapped between their bodies. “Of _course_ you can. I’m your guru, remember?”

Eddie looks a little like he might cry. He puts on a brave face, but his eyes quiver, lips trembling. _Fuck,_ Richie loves him. 

“You’re a lot more than that,” Eddie grumbles, and sounds so adorably put out Richie can’t help but raise his fingers to trace those cheeks again, pink and so very pinch-able. 

Through remarkable tact, Richie doesn’t press. He doesn’t joke, doesn’t bite. “I know,” he whispers, touching their foreheads together. “I know,” he whispers again, and he can feel Eddie’s chest collapse on a breath, like all his bottled-up emotion has been released at last. He hiccups and sobs, just once, his fingers wrapping around Richie’s back, gripping Richie’s shirt. 

Richie rests his chin on Eddie’s forehead, kissing him there. He closes his eyes, listens to the sounds of kids hollering a few blocks down, birds chirping in the trees. A horn honking a few streets over, bicycles pedaling by, a couple of teenagers yelling their names. 

They’ve been living in a magical bubble called Derry their whole lives, and sometimes it still feels too fantastical to believe. These formative years have been the best and the worst of Richie’s life, but if it weren’t for the sewers, the Loser’s, if it weren’t that damn summer experience essay, Richie may not be standing here. He may never have befriended Bill and Beverly. Stan was a sure thing, but not Ben. Not Mike, certainly not _Eddie._ Richie may have met them, but he wouldn’t _know_ them, not in a way that burns and bleeds, not in a way that makes him feel fucking complete. Sure, it took the shittiest, most traumatic memory of his life for that stupid blood pact to happen, but does that mean Richie regrets it? 

_Fuck_ no. Not by a long shot. 

Richie gives Eddie one last squeeze before slinging an arm around his shoulder and pinching his cheek. Just once, for the road. Eddie pushes the hand away from his face, rolling his eyes, but he intertwines their hands right after, running his thumb back and forth along their matching scars. 

“Chase me out, Eds?” Richie whispers, a private joke, and Eddie smiles before taking off, dragging a belligerent Richie behind him. Running in his tiny shorts, the way he was always meant to. 

Richie trails behind, watching the scene play out in front of him with a kind of peace that he _knows_ is magical, because he so rarely feels peace at all. It’s all part of the bubble that is Derry, Richie thinks, but that isn’t always a bad thing. Derry is a mixed bag, but it has its moments, too. Richie would know; he’s staring at one right now. 

Eddie turns around when he reaches the trunk. He raises an eyebrow, curious. “Ready to say goodbye?”

“I’m not sure,” Richie replies, because he’s not. It’s not that he isn’t ready to leave the worst of Derry behind. But it does feel, inexplicably, like he’s leaving something important, even if he is taking the best Derry has to offer with him. 

Well. Him and his eighty-pound bags of luggage, but still. Richie can’t complain. 

Eddie seems to intuit Richie’s meaning, though, because he rests his head on Richie’s shoulder. “I think we should, though,” he says, staring at the clouds. His hair tickles Richie’s neck, a comfort. 

“Yeah,” Richie sighs. “We should.”

Eddie peeks up at him, and his returning smile is worth all the shitty memories in the world. “Side by side?”

Richie grins back, easy and slow, letting that peace wash over him. “Side by fucking side.” He intertwines their hands, their matching scars. A secret there, buried in between their fingertips. A promise they get to fucking keep. 

_It isn’t over,_ Richie thinks, but that’s okay. 

The best is yet to come. 

* * *

> If you find someone worth holding onto, never, ever, let them go.

-It: Chapter II

**Author's Note:**

> And they lived happily ever after! Stephen who? Memory loss what? I don't know her. 
> 
> My playlist for this fic is [here](https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PL2ETu9w_kYSQi2mDWKDNwOZL-I8sYM-Gk), and my tumblr [here](http://tatooinelukes.tumblr.com/). Stalk away, fellow nerds. Stalk away. 
> 
> Thank you for reading!


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